AN 

AMERICAN 

POILU 




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AN AMERICAN POILU 






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AN 

AMERICAN POILU 



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BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1919 






Copyright, 1919, 
By Little, Bkown, and Company. 

All rights reserved 



Nottnooti ^reas 

Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Gushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 

Presswork by S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 



MAR 28 1919 
3)CI.A512833 



'f 



INTRODUCTION 

The War, that great refiner's fire, 
has burned away much of the dross cum- 
bering humankind, and left us face to 
face with the true metal of a myriad 
of souls before whose naked purity and 
selflessness we bow in homage. 

They are the youth who followed the 
Gleam, soldiers who despite the grim- 
ness of battle never lost sight of the 
vision that transformed reality to an 
ideal ; and made of suffering an incident, 
and of carnage a crusade for humanity. 

The accompanying letters sent by an 
American to his mother and sister seemed 
too rare a possession to be held in the 
custody of the few; therefore that the 
benediction they bring may be shared 
by others they are being printed. They 



INTRODUCTION 



were not designed for publication. 
Nevertheless, who would ask that they 
be touched by the editor's pencil? 

That an American in his thirties, a 
nature sensitively attuned and poetic, 
should for the cause of the right volun- 
tarily cast in his lot with the French 
poilu, and amid the brutalities of war, 
the tramp of armies, the din of cannon 
keep his spirit so serene that the star 
of his purpose is never dimmed, nor 
the beauty of his surroundings over- 
shadowed, is little short of a miracle. 
He was not a boy to be fascinated by 
the glamour of adventure; neither was 
he of the type to whose imagination 
a military career appealed. It was only 
his love for France and for his fellowman 
that lured him into dedicating his life 
to the world freedom. 

Before our own country entered the 
struggle, Mr. X., who had often so- 
journed in Paris and had there many 
friends, crossed the ocean to give his 
services as an orderly at the hospital 
vi 



INTRODUCTION 



at Neuilly ; and it was while on this 
errand of mercy that he formed the 
friendship with the wounded officer who 
was so vitally to influence his future. 
The two men had many tastes in com- 
mon ; both were persons of refinement 
and a broad culture, and both were 
endowed with a discriminating love for 
literature and for art. During the weary 
weeks of the Captain's convalescence 
there sprang up between them an affec- 
tion so tough of fiber that by the time 
the commander was able to be discharged 
and return to his troops a plan had been 
perfected whereby the orderly should 
accompany him as a member of the 
French infantry, the condition for en- 
listment being that the new recruit 
should remain with that particular regi- 
ment for the duration of the war, and 
not be subject to transfer. 

Such a request was unusual, and 

coming from an American unequipped 

for army duty was without precedent 

in the French War Office. In conse- 

vii 



INTRODUCTION 



quence it was necessary to present the 
papers personally to the Minister of 
War, and when they were returned it 
was with the unique distinction of being 
the only application of the sort ever 
received by the French Government from 
an American citizen. 

The letters describing the initiate's 
training for service are naive and amus- 
ing. Not only was he ignorant of mili- 
tary tactics but although familiar with 
the French tongue he had no technical 
knowledge of foreign war terms ; in 
addition he was quite unaccustomed 
to the vigorous physical exercise his new 
calling demanded. 

Nevertheless the letters he sent back 
to the mother and sister across seas 
never emphasize his discomforts, but 
dwell always on the larger truth of which 
the actual was but a symbol. 

"My dreams are my support," he 
says. "I transform in order to endure." 

One quotation picturing a visit he 
and the Captain made to the rolling 
viii 



INTRODUCTION 



kitchens nicely illustrates this quality 
of mind : 

"An interesting sight, these stoves 
on wheels, with the stew inside. The 
cook, a huge fork in his dirty hand, stands 
near by, and the crowd of pathetic poilus 
gather round with their cups and pails. 
... I watch and I have a vision. Sud- 
denly behind the backs of these dreary, 
muddy, homesick soldiers I see the 
treasures of Paris : the Venus de Milo, 
the rose windows of Notre Dame, the 
golden galleries of the Louvre, the gar- 
dens and avenues — quiet, sunny, leafy 
— all the splendors seeking safety and 
finding it behind these little crowding 
soldiers waiting for their pails of supper. 
It is visions such as these that keep me 
going." 

Amid the round of camp life the 
balance between friendship for his Cap- 
tain and comradeship with his brothers- 
in-arms is carefully sustained. All he 
has he shares with the latter, who in 
return affectionately dub him "L'Ame- 
ix 



INTRODUCTION 



rique", a pseudonym he accepts with a 
full realization of the obligation it en- 
tails. A single passage from a letter 
sent by the Captain of the regiment to 
the mother of the American Poilu is 
too sincere a tribute to be omitted : 

*'I am X.'s friend and together we 
are sharing in the Great War. I wish 
simply to assure you that in the diffi- 
culties that await him, in the fatigues, 
and in the midst of danger he will never 
be alone. It is easy to be devoted 
and affectionate toward him, for he him- 
self gives so much love and devotion. 
He is adored by all the men of the com- 
pany who are sensible of his camaraderie 
and the simplicity he manifests toward 
each of them. He can count on the 
devotion of every one, for all know his 
merits and appreciate the beautiful ex- 
ample of courage that his presence among 
them gives." 

That this faith was not misplaced 
was amply demonstrated by the events 
that followed. At the great battle in 



INTRODUCTION 



June, 1918, where the Cap tarn was shot 
down, and later at the famous battle 
of Soissons-Chateau-Thierry where the 
intrepid poilu himself was wounded, and 
from which slaughter only fourteen 
of the company escaped unscathed, 
America's son so conducted himself as 
to bring only honor to the twin Republics 
to which he owned allegiance. 

*'I do not know," he muses on the eve 
of the coming conflict, "how I shall 
behave in battle ; but I know I shall 
not be afraid." 

Nor was he. 

His modest delight in his Croix de 
Guerre and in his second citation is 
childlike in its wonder. 

"I have been cited for the French 
Cross — I, w^ho was never a soldier!" 

It was, as he said, "the climax of the 
unexpected." 

He alludes only sketchily, however, 

to the martial turmoil seething about 

him. Instead his letters are redolent 

with the perfume of gardens, and rich 

xi 



INTRODUCTION 



with the kaleidoscopic hues of country- 
side, stream, and woodland. Twilight 
steals over the valley "with the timidity 
of a woman begging", and "day is a 
blue divinity, violets and an unnamed 
yellow blossom hanging over the 
trenches." 

Of his love for those who are so dear 
to him who can speak with such elo- 
quence as himself ? 

Truly war is not without its compensa- 
tions when through the rifts of the 
battle's haze we are granted glimpses of 
a soul like this ! 



Sara Ware Bassett. 



Boston, Massachusetts, 
January 6, 1919. 



Xll 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Paris, Saturday, July 21, 1917. 
Cherie — 

Everything is arranged and within the 
next seven days I shall enter the most 
mysterious dream of my life. Yes, it 
seems a dream — a dream, however, so 
well buttressed by splendors that if I 
chance not to come down to breakfast 
you and mother and H. and all my 
friends will understand that I have done 
well. Although my case is unique in the 
French Infantry, all has been arranged as 
nicely as possible for me. Captain C. 
has the government's authority to keep 
me in his company. In fact I received 
a letter from the War Minister enlisting 
me only in Company 247 au armeey 
which is to say that I cannot be put in 
any other but Captain C.'s. The Com- 
mander at St. Malo has even arranged 

1 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

that while I'm there (which is only for 
two weeks) I may eat and sleep inside 
the caserne. This will be a great help, 
as naturally at the very first I shall need 
whatever comfort I can get to aid me to 
meet the enormous change of life. Fancy 
me up at five o'clock in the morning, 
gun in hand. Fancy me drilling all day. 
How tired I shall be — my back aches 
at the mere prospect — but how splen- 
did ; and as I have written you I am in 
excellent health — rosy as a youth of 
eighteen and feel as strong as a lion. 
Of course the two weeks at St. Malo 
are nothing ; from there I go to a depot 
located five miles (about) from the actual 
front. There I put in two months train- 
ing and after that proceed directly to the 
trenches. Life in the trenches is for me 
at present unimaginable, but I shall do 
my best and at least work to keep serene ; 
serenity is a great quality of a good sol- 
dier, so it seems to me. And you and 
mother must try to be good soldiers — 
always remembering that the cause is 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

worth more than anything that I can 
possibly give. The move alone justifies 
your unfailing love for me — and justifies 
mother's and justifies my love for the 
right, the strong, the unselfish, the 

beautiful. 

E. 

Depot du ^Ihne Regiment (Vlnfanterie, 
St. Malo, July ^27, 1917. 

Dear Mother — 

How I wish you could see me. I am 
a poilu — since yesterday afternoon at 
four o'clock. I am "dressed up" in a 
not perfectly fitting blue uniform and a 
little bonnet stuck over one ear. I look 
like a youth of twenty -one — I am rosy 
and chic. iVIy shoes are of greased cow- 
hide and my legs are bound to the knees 
with blue puttees. The uniform is a 
heavenly color and hot as hell and I 
feel like a happy stranger dropped from 
the moon. The first opportunity that 
comes, my picture shall be taken and 
sent to you. 

3 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I left Paris at seven-thirty o'clock. 
My last days in town were very exciting. 
In my somewhat large circle of friends I 
am become a hero — why, I know not. 
The oiivroir gave me a farewell tea — 
the ladies were charming — a red, white 
and blue bouquet was put in my button- 
hole — speeches were made and I was 
lavishly kissed. This took place Thurs- 
day afternoon. I was enormously 
touched — so many kind eyes looking 
at me — so many kind wishes given to 
me. Friday afternoon at four o'clock 
I made my final signature and now until 
the end of the war I'm a French sol- 
dier. Nothing but the most serious 
event can take me away from the job. 
How wonderful it is to be in the great 
waves, one with the best of mankind. 
Could you realize my present happiness 
you would go about your house singing 
like a lark. 

Well, after the signing in Paris I had 
twenty-four hours in which to reach 
my Depot, so I left Paris last night and 
4 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

arrived here this morning at eight o'clock. 
I met the dawn in Normandy. To tell 
you my sensations of that long ride, 
sitting up, will be an evening's pleasure 
at C. F. after the war. 

As I've told you, my case is very ex- 
ceptional and my Captain has arranged 
everything in his power to aid me and 
smooth my way. Long before you re- 
ceive this letter I shall be at the front. 
You will hear from me reo-ularlv. Don't 
write to me until you get my exact ad- 
dress. Pray for me, love me and know 
I am completely happy. 

E. 

St. Malo, July 29, 1917. 
Dear Mother — 

As you may very well imagine there 
are amusing moments being a poilu. 
This morning, for instance, we were 
taking account of all the luggage I 
must carry on my back when I leave 
here August 2nd for *' somewhere in 
France." The uniform and overcoat are 

5 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

by no means light, and then listen to 
the multitude of things I must hang 
about me — thirty pounds in all. A 
knapsack stuffed with underclothing, a 
musette stuffed with food, a bidon hold- 
ing wine, a blanket, a tent cloth, a tin 
cup, a tin dish, a gas mask and a hel- 
met. Also 120 cartridges and a bayo- 
net. A gun of course in my hand. 

"Well," the Captain suddenly asked, 
"and what will you do if you meet an 
officer? How will you salute with a 
gun?" 

"Mon Dieu," I cried, "I haven't an 
idea." 

"Remember the streets of Paris are 
filled with officers and to fail in a salute 
often means severe punishment." I 
found this very funny. 

However, to-morrow I'm to have my 
first training with a gun and if on August 
2nd I come across an officer, — as with- 
out doubt I shall, — he may think me 
hugely awkward but he will see my faith 
is good. Yesterday and to-day I've 
6 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

been learning the grades of my superiors, 
which is Uke a foreign language to me, 
and my own numbers — in French this 
is not so easy. Also I'm breaking in 
my new shoes (a hard job for my tender 
feet) and my uniform. The strangeness 
of it all charms and slightly terrifies me. 
I cannot tell you how romantic, even 
thrilling, it is to so suddenly find mj^self 
a soldier in this old, gray- walled city. 
Surely it is the great adventure of my 
life. And everybody is so willing to 
aid ; that is to say, the soldiers and 
officers at the Depot. If I can keep well 
and resist the fatigue of the first month 
I am sure I shall be a very good soldier and 
add a richness to all the days left me. 

E. 

Depot du Vieme, St. Malo. 

August 1, 1917. 

Bien chere Cherie — 

Your letter of July 12th, written a 
few days after my first cable, arrived 
here last night. On first reading it 
7 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

made me unhappy — deeply so — (not 
regretful for my decision you must under- 
stand, but simply unhappy) but on 
second reading I realized you wrote in 
confusion, astonishment and perhaps ter- 
ror, not being naturally en rapport suffi- 
ciently with my conditions or my plans. 
Surely it must have been trying to 
suddenly hear that instead of sailing 
for home after all these months away 
I proposed to volunteer for the great 
adventure. I understand, dear, and I 
hope and believe that the letters you 
have since received from me have estab- 
lished your morale. For you as for 
me it is the opportunity. Whatever 
the outcome, it is destined to cast a 
real splendor about us forever and ever 
— and you and I have always been so 
eager for a real splendor, isn't it so? 
Personally I am vastly happy — as I've 
never been before. I only regret I'm 
not an ox with the strength of ten and 
the lives of "Billy" to hurl myself 
against the Boches. I have heard of 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

Louvain and Rheims ; I have seen their 
devastation. I want to be a soldier — 
in fact I am: a poilu with a number 
14914 and a gun and a little tin cup — 
and a splendid captain, I am no longer 
an outsider. The law and the right 
are at my back, and in my heart and ear 
the order to advance. I cannot fail — 
or, rather, even failure in this case has 
its touch of nobility. Do you under- 
stand ? We are alive — we have become 
a part of our generation — I have my 
role to play and you have yours. When 
once you realize the prospect you cannot 
be other than happy and proud. You 
will bear the hardships with me and the 
light will fall on your mourning. I see 
you proud, intelligent and happy. I do 
it for you, and when I come sailing up 
Boston Harbor our joy will be white 
and solid as marble. You know my pen 
and that I can only express myself in 
this way of writing. From my many 
letters you will get, if you put them 
together, a pretty good idea of why and 
9 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

how I have started out. The influences 
have been, naturally, enormous, obscure 
and complex — but now my path is 
clear, and to know you are happy and 
courageous will be the sunlight on it. 

E. 

August 9, 1917. 
Chere Mother — 

There are so many many things to 
write you that my poor pen staggers 
at the labor — and too my time is 
short. The soldier's life is a busy one, 
especially when he is getting his train- 
ing. It is indeed a great adventure 
for me — like something in a delightful 
old story-book. It is engrossing, physi- 
cal, mental, fatiguing. My happiness 
is intense ; a bird (I don't know what 
kind) is singing in my bones, and what- 
ever may be the outcome I can never 
regret my decision. Of course my chance 
here is extraordinary — a piece of the 
fantastic luck that has followed me all 
my life. A unique opportunity. 
10 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I left St. Malo five days ago and came 
to this enchanting Httle village where 
my regiment is stationed. The Cap- 
tain in charge of the Depot (a royal 
sort of fellow) received me with marked 
cordiality — for two reasons : first as a 
friend of Captain C.'s and second as an 
American volunteer. He at once ar- 
ranged everything for me in a perfect 
manner. I eat with the officers — the 
food is excellent — I'm lodged in a bewil- 
deringly charming house — a large room, 
airy, comfortable, with a casement win- 
dow opening upon a veritable Matisse 
garden. The orderly of my Captain 
attends to my little needs — cleaning 
shoes, etc. Each morning from seven 
until nine I train alone under the special 
orders of a young adjutant. He is a 
splendid young fellow lately returned 
from Verdun. My dear, whenever you 
hear the word Verdun cross your heart 
— its story is tremendous — history will 
write it in gold. After my training I 
study the mitrailleuses with two cap- 
11 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

tains. Each morning since my arrival 
(except Sunday when I played Canfield !) 
I have assisted in taking apart the 
mitrailleuse — it is a marvelous gun — 
and thoroughly engrossing. Next week 
I shall learn to discharge it. Already 
I've shot off an automatic gun — it was 
the first time in my life, and Captain 
C. said my left arm trembled — but 
I did it and enjoyed it. I hope to 
become a good shot. Afternoons I march 
under commands. We dine at seven ; 
how can I tell you of the charm of our 
meals? A long table set in the huge 
stone-paved hall of an old house. Seated 
about it charming officers. Our plates 
are of tin, so are our cups. We are 
lighted by candles burning in wine bottles. 
The conversation is jolly and intelligent. 
If I wish to ride a horse I may (we are 
not sitting at the table now). Twice 
I'ye been invited to go fishing, but 
needless to say I'm too tired as yet to 
use my leisure in sports. Every one 
has been so nice. Five days has made 

n 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

me a little thinner "under the ears" and 
I'm burned. Write to me twice a week 
and be content that I'm so happy and 
have entered into so magnificent a cur- 
rent. I shall remain here until November 
and then move nearer the front. AH day 
here we get the detonation of the French 
and Boche cannon. So you see, for all it 
is so delightful, we are on the warpath. 

Devotedly, 

E. 

August 22, 1917. 
Beloved Mother — 

It is strange to read of such hot weather 
at home. Our summer has been autum- 
nal. August 1st at St. Malo was even 
wintry. I wore a woolen shirt and 
thick socks — and for all that took a 
cold, which has long since vanished. 
Recently our weather has been divine — 
temperate describes it — just the thing 
for training and horseback riding, of 
which I have plenty. The days pass 
swiftly and happily. Out of bed (or 
13 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

rather off of bed — it is on the floor) 
at five-thirty — training with the gun 
until ten o'clock — mitrailleuses until 
luncheon — theory of warfare until four 
— ride across country or a march until 
five-thirty — dinner — bed at nine. Of 
course you understand my training is 
(so far) very special owing to my friend- 
ship with Captain C. For a man of 
thirty -five training has its difficulties. 
One must begin slowly. I work with 
all my strength, sweat like an American 
in August, and find the life very excit- 
ing and pleasant. 

Never shall I forget my reception in 
the Depot by the Commandant R. and 
his officers. It happened I arrived a 
half hour or so before Captain C. (we 
came in different carts), and you can 
imagine the moment might have been 
very difficult for me — a raw civilian ; 
but no, I was greeted like a friend by 
every one, and most charming men they 
were too. Some have since been killed, 
and I came only three weeks ago ! The 
14 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

personnel of the Depot changes ahnost 
daily — officers returning to the firing 
line and Others coming here for a rest. 
Yesterday noon arrived a young lieu- 
tenant who thrilled me with his account 
of the last attack near Verdun. He was 
still deaf from the explosions. You could 
not sleep if I should tell you all he told 
me — of the splendor of certain acts — 
of the heroics of the common soldiers. 
Captain Pete thought he might receive 
an order to go at once to the front (after 
the news of the attack — several offi- 
cers were killed) and we decided I should 
go with him, training or no training. 
Strange, but I've a mad curiosity to know 
how I should act under a violent bombard- 
ment. Fortunately I shall learn that later. 
Word came Sunday to Commandant 
R. to go to the south of Europe on a 
commission. I was sorry to have him 
go. He is a most charming man, with 
a large knowledge of warfare and books. 
Four of his brothers have been killed 
since the beginning of the war. Nine 
15 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 



left his father's house to fight. For 
his last dinner Captain C. and I made 
a little fete. An extra bottle of wine 
and a funny menu which I hurriedly 
arranged. He was very amused and 
pleased. When he left all the Depot 
came to say good-by. He kissed his 
brother (who is instructing me) and 
Captain C. and me, sajnng, "I kiss 
America." Wasn't it a beau geste! I 
was naturally flattered. 

This letter has been interrupted by 
the coiffeur who came to clip my wig, 
and an hour's ride on "Deloge." The 
countryside was exquisite in the late 
afternoon light. We rode through fields 
and fields of gathered golden wheat. I 
must stop now and "clear up." 

Excuse the vague composition of my 
letters. I am always in a hurry. Free 
moments are rare. I think of you con- 
stantly and know you are happy know- 
ing I am happy. 

ToujourSy 

E. 

16 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

August 24, 1917. 
Dear Mother — 

How you would have laughed this 
morning if you had seen your poilu shoot- 
ing at a target for the first time — and 
afterwards drilling with seven other sol- 
diers. Heretofore my training has been 
alone, and, as I say, this was my first 
attempt with cartridges. Externally I 
was more serious than was ever any 
judge, but inwardly amused. I had a 
strong sensation that you and Emily 
and H. were sitting in the blue on a com- 
fortable white cloud, grinning down on 
me. However, I was too busy to look 
up and wink. On the whole my shoot- 
ing was successful. Of the eight "old 
hands" who shot with me, only one did 
better than your son. I fancy a little 
training will make me a really decent 
shot. My "eye" is splendid, is true, 
but naturally my arms are not solid. 
The detonation and the "kick" which 
I had been led to think would be nerve- 
racking I discovered to be nothing. I 
17 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

fired fifty cartridges. Without any doubt 
if I return from the war I shall become 
a hunter and we will, each autumn, eat 
venison and duck fresh from my gun. 
Isn't it nice to feel my father living in 
me again ! 

Well, dear, here we are in September 
(I write as you read) and your garden 
is falling to dust. I feel your hot last- 
summer days and the brown coolness 
of the house. Almost a year since I 
fastened my trunks and left home. And 
it's over a month since I enlisted. Time 
is a hustling American. By the way, 
I'm not far from Pershing's army, and 
next Sunday I'm invited over to hear 
a concert arranged by my compatriots. 
Vive la France, Vive V Ameriquel 

Devotedly, 
E. 

August, 1917. 
Cherie — 

Here is a veritable festival of engines 
of destruction and you would be amazed 
18 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

to see me getting an insight into their 
workings. This morning I left the house 
at six-thirty, walked eight miles (through 
enchanting midsummer country) to at- 
tend a lesson on the grenade. It was 
vastly interesting. The ground was ar- 
ranged exactly like the lines at the 
front — and a group of soldiers threw 
five hundred grenades. The noise was 
formidable but exciting. I notice that 
the explosion has a distinct effect on 
the blood. It rouses the circulation 
and makes one feel like getting right 
into the thunder. As we were the guests 
of the Captain of the grenade throwers, 
we were shown the various and terrible 
varieties. One impressed me deeply. It 
is an invention of the Boche, but now 
used by my France. A grenade to 
suffocate and burn the enemy. Wlien 
the harmless little tin box touches the 
ground it sends out a splendid thunder 
and a gorgeous rain of blue fire that 
burns instantly to the bone. As I 
watched the thing in action I hadn't a 
19 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

thought of the horror of being killed 
by it, but, I thought, would it be possible 
to launch it even at a Boche? Surely 
one must feel the vastness of *'the 
Cause" to be equal to the act. 

This afternoon I fired the mitrailleuses 
(two models) ; they work to perfection 
and respond with an astounding ease. 
I desire to be a good mitrailleur — it 
requires a mental force and a clear eye 
— and no especial physical strength. I 
also got down on my belly and fired the 
mitrailleur gun. This is also delightful 
and formidable. What a pity I didn't 
begin my life at West Point ! 

You cannot imagine how kind every 
one is to me here. And such splendid 
men — so intelligent, so jolly and all 
with a record of bravery behind them. 
I am very happy and I only regret you ^ 
are not at hand that I might tell you all 
about it. Last night w^e heard a terrific 
bombardment from Verdun. 

Dear sister, the summer is almost 
gone — your garden, I hope, has repaid 
20 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

you for all your labor, and you have 
flowers in all the rooms. I am often 
there, I assure you — listen and you will 
hear me — And what do you read ? 
Each night before going to bed I listen 
to my Captain reading Walt Whitman. 
Later, when I am used to the novelty 
of this life, I shall read Racine to him. 
The gamut is sufficiently stretched, isn't 
it.'^ marching, training with a gun, gre- 
nades, mitrailleuses y Racine and Walt 
Wliitman. 

It is raining this twilight and one could 
easily be homesick — but I'm happy. 
Ton jours ct apreSy 

E. 

412^771^ d'Infanferie, 
Depot Divisionnaire. 
September 11, 1917. 
Cherie — 

The number of my regiment and my 

secteur is changed, as you will notice. 

The reason of this is interesting, and you 

will learn it after the war. It is likely 

21 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

my secteur number will change again 
soon. Don't be surprised or worried 
if letters are often very much delayed. 
And remember always that, without 
doubt, all letters to and from me are 
read by the censors, military and civilian. 
This is Tuesday, and on Thursday 
last I wrote you we were awaiting orders 
to march. The word came Saturday 
noon and by one o'clock, under a broiling 
sun, I was one of the thousand men to 
be seen serpentining out of the weird 
little village of the villa and Matisse 
garden. I was loaded like a pack mule, 
and, for the first four miles, wondered 
however I should be able to stand the 
strain. The " Ham Branch " flowed down 
my back and Niagara fell from my brows. 
My left shoulder was numb. Halte! 
Sac a terre! The good Captain gives me 
a drink of tea. I smoke a cigarette. 
Sac au dos! The knapsack swings over 
the shoulder. We scramble from the 
grassy edge of the white road and are 
marching again. 

22 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



The second hour is easier — and 
sweatier. Our smells, like our songs, 
mount to the skies. We sing about 
La Liberie, Le Pays and the pleasure of 
sleeping pres de ma Blonde. "Oh, pres 
de ma Blonde, quil fait bon dormirr 
A corking lilt that the feet follow well. 
It is an old song — eighteenth century 
— and is still the favorite of the heir:; 
of the soldiers who fought for the kings. 

I am the victim of aches, fatigue, but 
proud as a veteran as I pass the poor 
fellows left panting by the way in the 
shade of a dusty bush. By five o'clock 
we are all nicely arranged in an enormous 
train of cars. I am with our officers. 
We eat dinner en route out of a straw 
box. Seven o'clock we alight at S — , 
companies are formed — sac au dos — 
marching again into the vast face of a 
dramatic, sulphurous sunset. The little 
town watches us go by. The outlymg 
country is huge and still and lonely. 
Here and there in the middle of a field, or 
a step from the road, a soldier's grave 
23 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

— his flag so bloody, bloody red in the 
strange yellow twilight. I am very tired 

— the hour is solemn — impressions come 
fast and rich. A beauty never dreamed 
by me before comes to me out of the 
sky — the fields — the black forest 
masses — my comrades — my load — 
and the tramp, tramp through the still- 
ness. I think of many things. I think 
of my father and mother and thank 
God they made me a man as susceptible 
as any. I hold it the greatest gift 
parents can give — and mine gave it 
me. 

We pass through little towns left 
in ruins by the Boche. We cross a 
damp meadow and meet the night in 
a wood — night as black as the Kaiser's 
future. Difficulties are evidently ahead. 
We halt half a dozen times in half an 
hour. It is exliausting. Word finally 
comes down the lines that we must 
go over the foot-bridge of a river. We 
form a single file — we creep — it is 
terribly tiring. At last the bridge — 
24 



^.V AMERICAN POILU 

a mere plank only half a yard wide 
over a deep broad river — a shaky cord 
to hold by. A thousand men pass over, 
and I for one, who hate the lowest 
height, tremble like a fool. I laugh to 
myself, thinking I might be drowned on 
my first march. 

My fatigue is intense but suffused. 
I no longer feel my sack or gun. My feet 
march by themselves. We have another 
bridge — plank without cord — awful — 
but I get by, along with my nine hundred 
and ninety -nine comrades. 

I remember we went through a street 
of lovely lighted windows. I remember 
the look of two sweet women standing 
at a door, one holding a lamp, the other 
bending down and pouring water from 
a pitcher for crowding poihis. I shall 
never forget the perfection of that group 
— never. 

All agree it was a hard march. Every 
one was exhausted, my Captain very 
much so. 

The later and blacker it grew, the louder 
25 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

our songs. I noticed that those who 
had not sung at the start now sang for 
the others. At ten o'clock (rest for 
ten minutes) I was flat on my back by 
the road looking up at a red star and 
humming "Annie Laurie." 

A little before midnight eight hundred 
and fifty tired men fell asleep in the 
divine straw of the great barns of S. I 
shared the Captain's room — weird, dirty 
room and a weird but clean bed. I was 
so exhausted physically and so excited 
mentally I could not sleep. The bed- 
clothes were heavy as lead. 

Day appeared at the funny window. 
A huge bowl of coffee, a bath, and I 
w^as "fit" enough. ^ly first march — 
the hardest and perhaps the happiest 
day of my life. A word spoken to aid 
me by an unseen soldier — the timbre 
of courageous voices — I shall never 
forget. 

Devotedly, 
E. 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



^l^eme Reg't. d'Infanterie, 
Depot Divisionnaire, Secteur Postal 49. 

September 22, 1917. 

Cherie — 

If the postman has done his duty, 
you know that I am moved away from 
the funny little village of the mauve 
crocuses. (I sent you a crocus, did it 
arrive ?) We were afoot by seven o'clock 
(all but the Captain who was mounted 
on a bay horse — he looked very hand- 
some). I suppose the weather was ideal 
for a long march — cool under a gray 
sky — but I should have preferred sun 
and sweat. The lack of gold on the 
landscape — the low skies — did nothing 
to lighten the hardness of the road and 
the accumulating fatigue. No one sang, 
no one laughed; hour after hour with 
hardly a word spoken we put the left 
before the right and covered a goodly 
number of miles. Perhaps the weather 
had nothing to do with the depression 
— perhaps it was the direction of our 
27 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

route. At two o'clock we boarded a 
train. Our orders told us we would 
arrive at a certain town at ten o'clock, 
and then a marcli of ten miles would 
bring us to our new camp. At eight 
o'clock it set in to rain hard — no lights 
allowed on the train. Ten miles in this 
storm will be a jolly experience, I thought. 
The train was late ; at midnight we were 
*' there." A charming Commander to 
whom I was presented — he spoke Eng- 
lish — entered the coach and told the 
Captain we were to sleep in the train ; 
good news — everybody content. I 
wrapped my capote about me and tried 
to sleep — a painful night ; at dawn we 
were in line and en route — a march 
of fifteen miles through a country abso- 
lutely worn out by war — I was tired. 
A cup of thin wine for breakfast — my 
feet huge with yellowish mud, my hands 
superbly dirty — but I was solid and 
happy. The little poilu by my side was 
exhausted, but I kept him going by 
giving him a cigarette from time to 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

time. We arrive — and the dream 
deepens. A village — how can I tell 
you about it .'^ — a village exhausted — 
a village like a poor old man who has 
worked too hard, all wrinkles and bones 

— a village not destroyed by war, but 
worn, beaten, consumed by the passing 
and repassing, day and night, of an 
army. The road is a skeleton gnawed 
by the rolling artillery and infinite, infi- 
nite feet. The cottages, the trees along 
the way, are old hags, the very air seems 
frail — weakened by the constant shock 
from the cannon. By the meager little 
river has been built a series of long huts 
for the wounded — brought daily from 
the trenches. On the dusty, dusty hillside 
is a graveyard — monstrous, awful — with 
huge ditches all ready and waiting for 
their soldiers, I walked through it crying 

— it is unimaginable — it is unimaginable. 
Bombardments and gas and aeroplane 

attacks are frequent ; we are forbidden 

to leave the house without a mask. 

Three times this morning the trumpet 

29 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

has sounded the approach of aerophmcs. 
Last night I said to the Captain, "No 
matter what happens to-night, I shall 
not leave my bed — I'm dead tired. 
They can try to blow the place up — but 
I propose to sleep." Nothing happened, 
however, but I didn't sleep. The rats 
made such a hellish racket — a perfect 
stampede in the refuse heap outside 
my broken window. I had to get up 
to see whatever they were doing ; a 
sky fretted with stars repaid me for 
chilling my feet on the century -old floor. 
In the north the sudden forked lightnings 
from the cannon. Isn't it all like a dream ? 
A hot bath, this morning, in the erratic 
rubber tub made me feel like an ace. 

E. 

412e??i<? Reg't d'Infanterie, 
Depot Divisionnaire, Secteur Postal 49. 

September 22, 1917. 

Cherie — 

I am getting very near to the music 
— it sounds day and night. Already 
30 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I accept it as one of Nature's own voices, 
and forget to think that each rumble 
and bang may be the death of heroes. 
Most of the men with whom I marched 
from the village of crocuses left last 
night — we only arrived at noon — for 
the first line. I saw them trail away 
in the green twilight and I felt a little 
ashamed that I was not with them — 
and a little jealous also, realizing their 
opportunities. Poor fellows ! they were 
tired and went away a little sad — after 
three years of war fancy the need of 
rest. Their route must have been dreary ; 
this part of the country is almost one 
continuous graveyard. I slip out of my 
window. I cross the road. I enter the 
awful cemetery where the soldiers liter- 
ally sleep holding hands — their crosses 
overlap — one bouciuet decorates three 
graves. The disagreeable trench is al- 
ready made for the others — the others 
who are marching by — the others who 
are shaking the little pears from a dusty 
tree in the miserable meadow opposite 
31 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

— the others who are sitting in the 
cobwebby barns cleaning their guns — 
the others who are scrubbing clothes 
in the dirty river — the others who are 
writing home. 

My room would amuse you. As it 
is the Captain's also it is probably the 
best in the village — a sort of huge 
cave, smelling of old cows and old pigs 

— a fireplace like the black portal of a 
cathedral — an uneven floor that can 
never be clean — two solemn and beauti- 
ful wardrobes side by side — two beds 
(mine a charming one of the Empire) — 
a clock reaching to the rafters — and 
a chill that sends me out of the window 
every so often to warm my feet in the 
sun. I am very happy, Phebe, and 
feel like Alice in Wonderland. 

E. 

October 1, 1917. 
Dear Mother — 

Letters drop in from all my well- 
beloveds but never a word from you. 

32 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

What is the matter? I can't under- 
stand. Some heartless eddy has doubt- 
lessly ensnared your epistles and they 
are piling up somewhere for me — at 
least I hope so. 

As I have told you our recent move 
has brought us nearer the front. An 
ugly little village nightly serenaded by 
les avians is at present our home. I 
can't say that I exactly like it, but then 
I didn't enlist to like it. A night or 
two ago we had a thunderous old time 
and the next morning I stepped down 
the road to take a look at the "remains." 
Not a pleasant sight. One bomb fell 
among a charming group of trees ; it 
made a hole as big as a room. Near 
by I picked up a little yellow bird whose 
head had been cracked open by the 
explosion. He was probably sound asleep 
on the unlucky bough. I inclose a 
tiny feather I pulled from his wing. 
I pray it may bring you as near as you 
will ever come to a bomb — unless it 
is the kind Paris cooks make of ice 
33 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

cream. By the way, do you still have 
ice cream in M. ? Send me a freezer 
full. I am hungry for ice cream — and 
apple pie. Another month and I have 
a permission of ten days. I can eat 
ice cream then three times a day. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

October 3, 1917. 
Depot Divisionnaire. 
Dear Mother — 

I have been complimented — and I 
quote it for your amusement — for you 
know I never dreamed of receiving a 
compliment for my marching, drilling, 
handling a gun and all the rest. 

This morning the Lieutenant who was 
commanding the company praised me 
for my "dash." He used the English 
word — fancy ! And yesterday a Cap- 
tain of another company complimented 
my work. Captain C. turned to him 
and explained how little training I had 
had, and the other Captain replied, 
34 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

*'But he was better than the others 
this morning." 

It is very amusing and thoroughly- 
enjoyable. Three hours this morning 
I worked like a trooper in a sham attack. 
My body is still aching (pleasantly) 
from the movements. It is great fun. 

Wliere are your letters ? My brother 
soldiers are to celebrate your birthday. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

October 5, 1917. 
Depot Divisionnaire. 
Cherie — 

A dark, cloudy, autumn night — nine 
o'clock. My weird room is lighted by 
a candle wedged into a wine bottle. 
I'm alone — the Captain being busy 
outside. You must have wondered about 
the Captain. He is a very remarkable 
man. Externally he is calm, precise, 
elegant, reserved. Mentally lie is active, 
just, brave and deeply intelligent. His 
faculties are directed to his soldiers — 
35 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

his country — he is imfaiHng. His devo- 
tion to me is complete. Never, for a 
single moment, has he forgotten "my 
case" since I enlisted, and this in a 
life busy from dawn until bedtime — 
and often after. Last night, for example, 
he was roused at two o'clock to sign 
certain orders. As he has told me, he 
is never tired when he has something 
to do. If everj^ officer in the French 
army was of the type of my Captain the 
French nation would need no allies. 

I have told you of his love and insight 
regarding literary matter. We have had 
such good half hours reading Walt Whit- 
man and Racine. The latter has become 
my daily companion. A spare moment 
and Racine is in my hand. I hope you 
will read him some day. We w^ill read 
" Phedre " and " Athalie " together when 
the cruel war is over and Johnny comes 
marching home again. 

At six o'clock in the morning when 
I tumble out of bed and strap on my 
armament for the drill — and feel a 
36 



I 



AN AMERICAN POILXJ 

little depressed — I say to the Captain, 
" Parlez anglais, Pierre", and he recites 
the words he knows. He speaks them 
so gently — it is so amusing — that I 
begin to laugh — my lazy depression 
vanishes — and I mount the hill in 
martial spirits. Pray for the Captain, 
for without him I am lost. 

What are you doing this misty night ? 

Tou jours, 
E. 

Sunday, October 7, 1917. 
Depot Divisionnaire. 
Dear Mother — 

A pathetic episode in camp to-day. 
I wonder if I can tell you about it. 
The event was really a happy one but 
the atmosphere about infinitely sad. 

The older soldiers, after three years 
of war, have been released from military 
duty — sent to the rear to help the 
cause in other ways — mending roads, 
etc. Those (a hundred men, perhaps) 
of our camp left this noon. I went out 
37 



^iV AMERICAN POILU 

to see them march away, and say good-by 
to those I chanced to know. They 
stood up Hke young soldiers, but they 
were so thin and shabby and tired. The 
Captain, with tears in his eyes, said 
good-by to each one — shaking each 
one by the hand. In their honor he had 
put on his best uniform and his decora- 
tions — a chic thing to do. "'^Gard a 
vous!" was the order. They took their 
best position. "'Arm a la hretelle!" that 
is to say, "carry your gun by the strap." 
A dehcate order, for the young soldier 
shoulders his gun when retiring from his 
captain. So they marched away in the 
wet and the gray — our old soldiers ; 
only that, but I shall remember it — 
and my slender Captain dressed up to 
bid them au revoir. Robin (it was 
Robin who cleaned our shoes) was among 
them. He was devoted to Pierre and 
to me (as Pierre's friend) and, before 
leaving, he called me to him and gave 
me his funny old cane. 

The simplicity and the serenity of 
38 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

the old French poilu is very touching, and 
you may be certain I omit no chance of 
showing my appreciation of his destiny. 

E. 

October 16, 1917. 
Cherie — 

I had just finished reading your charm- 
ing letter of September 20th when the 
Captain came in, crying that a Boche 
aeroplane had fallen in the fields not 
far from the village. I had heard a lot 
of shooting, but we are used to that sort 
of thing; so I hadn't gone out to see 
what might be happening and I missed 
the chute d'Icare. But as the horses 
were waiting for us (we had planned a 
ride) we jumped into the saddles and 
galloped over the midday fields to see 
the victim. A group of soldiers from 
a neighboring cantonment — a dozen or 
so Americans — and surely a hundred 
horsemen were already about the wreck. 
It was a sorry sight which made every- 
body happy. Huge black crosses on 
39 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

the tail covered with blood. The two 
occupants horribly mangled. Overhead 
proudly circled the French machine that 
had done the good work. 

Suddenly bounding over the fields 
came a golden-red fox. The crowd set 
up a yell of joy and the hundred horse- 
men went tearing after the poor animal 
— and got him. Arriving home I found 
a pretty butterfly resting on your letter. 
I killed him (just to be a la mode) and 
inclose his corpse to verify my deadly 
instincts. Probably the long journey 
between you and me will destroy his 
charm of purple, lilac, brown and yellow. 
I was quite indifferent to the Boche and his 
blood — and to the thought of Gretchen in 
Bingen on the Rhine — but I confess to 
feeling a ciualm while sticking the pin into 
the butterfly. It was so pretty of him to 
select your open letter for his resting 
place. Cherie, we are all savages, or else 
for a time the world is insane. 

Devotedly, 
E. 
40 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



October 20, 1917. 
Cherie — 

The fog is over us to-night and is our 
protection. It is so dense you can't 
see a yard ahead. The Boche will not 
be able to find us. The twilight was 
very lonely — wave after wave of mist 
came up the valley and settled about 
the weird houses. There was a moment 
when the village looked like a gray 
corpse — killed by some monster who, 
escaping, had thrown his huge, bloody 
knife into the sky. 

This new moon will bring us bombard- 
ment, but for the next ten days at least 
I'm to be safe in Paris. We leave 
to-morrow afternoon, arriving in Paris 
Monday morning before breakfast. 
What a good time we shall have wash- 
ing and cleaning up at our leisure! 
For ten days I shall forget guns and 
drilling and all the array of war and 
simply lark it. I anticipate a good 
time. I shall be a poilu en permission. 
I must do my Christmas shopping — 
41 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

what shall your present be ? I haven't 
an idea less modest than a white satin 
dinner gown or a Russian seal opera 
cloak. But, ma Cherie, these are war 
times and we mustn't overdress ! What 
shall I buy you? A bag? No? Is 
your bead one still good-looking? My 
pen is light-headed to-night. I merely 
write to say I love you. How many 
letters have you received from me ? I've 
written you nearly daily for a long time 
now. But writing is such a consola- 
tion to me. For all I'm here and "in 
it" soul and body, I'm still an outsider. 
I'm still the one American in the French 
Infantry. So you see my pen is a kind 
of wireless telephone which is constantly 

ringing you up. 

E. 

November 3, 1917. 
Cherie — 

I've had the keenest disappointment. 
I return from my permission expecting 
to find letters from home and there are 
42 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

none for me. Not a word to greet me. 
You see, since I've joined the army I've 
written to you or mother nearly every 
day. It has been my greatest pleasure, 
and somehow this has brought home 
into my outlandish rooms and barracks. 
You have been beside me almost every 
hour. In Paris, en permission, caught 
up in a cyclone of good times, I didn't 
find a moment to write a word. By 
some mysterious inner connection I 
thought of you all the time as not being 
in M. but back there "somewhere in 
France." A subtle joy invaded me on 
leaving Paris that I was coming back 
to find you — and behold, I am here 
and you are not — nor a letter either. 
Do you understand ? Of course there 
are steamers filled with your manu- 
scripts sailing toward me. I realize it, 
but it was a shock not to find at least 
a word waiting on my table. It was 
something like arriving at S. Street, 
after the war, only to discover the 
house cold — vacant. 
43 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

" * Is there anybody there ? ' asked the 
traveler 
Knocking at the moonlit door." 

Well, the permission is over. Its rapid- 
ity is baffling and illogical. It doesn't 
seem possible that ten days could go 
so swiftly. I didn't have time to turn 
around. Like a poor gamin who has 
found a ticket for the theater, I sat for 
a dizzy hour in the light and splendor 
and then was run out into mud, rain 
and blackness. Mud, rain and black- 
ness tells the tale exactly, both as to 
weather and my morale. To-day has 
been a nightmare inside and outside. 
I'm lonely, I'm lost, but, thank God, I've 
the priceless gift of moods and to-morrow 
without doubt will find me happy as 

a dozen larks. 

A toi, 

E. 

November 9, 1917. 
Cherie — 

There is no use — it remains a dream 
— the whole detour. And to-day it is 
44 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

dreamiest. I can make no reality out 
of it. This November village drenched 
in rain and mist — zigzag houses half 
in ruins — these crooked trees — sand- 
bag roofs of shelters under a camouflage 
of dead branches — low barracks — cam- 
ions driving in the mud, their canvas 
coverings painted like stage drops. At 
night the skeleton lights signaling over 
the hills — the whine of shells — the 
explosions and the echo. Does that 
sound real, I ask you ? 

'On the long marches (I love them), 
at drill or target shooting, I feel somnam- 
bulistic. My little dog Tray does not 
bark. Last July I thought the soldier's 
life would solidify the earth under my 
feet, but it has made it more an air 
cushion than ever. The dream rain 
falls on the dream roof. Well — I can- 
not help it. My head, my left side to 
France if need be and willingly, but my 
last fancy to whatever wind that blows. 
The tree to the lumberman but never 
the birds. They twirl aside, they drift. 
45 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

Cherie, do you find my letters vague, 
unimportant? Wiat do you care to 
hear from me of the pitiable Russian 
slump, Nicholas, Rasputin, Kerensky and 
Co., or of Italy's black eye (tremble 
for Venice) or the last fall of Gaza? 
Your papers are filled with Uncle Sam 
and his army. I send you what is 
integral of myself. My helmet, my thick 
shoes are on the warpath. I am over 
the hills and God knows where. I met 
a brave soldier who told me he hadn't 
a sensation when he went over the top. 
I'm sure I shall have one — that of 
the uttermost of dreams. Is it a gift — 
a curse? I don't know. C'est moi. 

E. 

412^mc Reg'f d'Infanterie, 
Jf£me Compagnie, Secteur 49. 

November 12, 1917. 
Clierie — 

A Boche plane overhead trying to 
take our picture — our cannon making 
a hell of a racket shooting at her. They 
46 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

come by daylight to make their studies, 
returning after dark to do the dirty 
work. I've told you how unpleasant 
that is. 

Cherie, look up the valley — 'tis late 
afternoon — and admire the amethyst 
drapery. It floats around the November 
trees — the sky wanes. "La nuit est 
la, comme une Jemme qui mendie.'" The 
valley has become my art treasure, 
my theater, my cinema — it performs 
hourly. This morning when I got out 
of my box it was shy and secretive, 
showing merely the thin tops of the 
few trees. Later, the white mist crept 
up its sides and disappeared into the 
woods. The grass by the stream was 
green as April. The sun made it shine 
— now it withdraws in lilac tints and 
*'/a nuit est la, comme une femme qui 
mejidic.'' This lovely line of poetry 
the Captain brought back from his per- 
mission; a friend told it to him — he 
told it to me. We have repeated it a 
thousand times while thinking and doing 
47 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

unpoetical jobs. Haven't you often seen 
the night come into a room like a woman 
timidly begging entrance ? 

We read "things" in the papers and 
we say — "How dreadful that must have 
been", but the mind cannot conceive 
how dreadful a "dreadful thing" is. 
With my, as yet, little experience I have 
learned that it isn't the dying or the 
wounds ; it's the live flesh recoiling as it 
goes forward toward the "thing." Do 
you notice how much I use the word 
"thing"? It denotes the indescribable 
— whether it be beautiful or awful — 
the thing I 

But I am not writing my letter — I 
can't seem to get on the track. I took 
my pen to tell you of my trip to Verdun. 
Perhaps I'm frightened to begin — it 
made such a ghoulish impression — an 
episode in the dream when one screams 
and wakes up crying. 

We motored, as guests of a Comman- 
dant and another Captain. We entered 
the nightmare in the early afternoon. As 
48 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I wrote H., my ink is too white to convey- 
to you my sensations as I walked through. 
I felt as though my head were dead and 
I was looking out of rotten eyes. I felt 
like an idiot with my mouth hanging open 
and my tongue lolling out. Nothing I 
had ever thought or read looked like 
Verdun. I didn't dream there was so 
much hate in the world. Street after 
street of crazy houses, churches, libraries, 
cafes, palaces, shops, theaters, meat mar- 
kets : a city in ruin — not cleared away 
by fire, but standing like a circus of 
lepers ; and so still — not a hint of life, 
not a ghost left even — nothing but 
destruction — hollow, toppling, murky. 
A city knocked senseless by thousands 
and thousands of blows. A few years 
since Verdun was one of the loveliest 
cities of France, the Venice of the North, 
serenely terraced by the Meuse. Out- 
side the w^alls we entered the Citadel, 
a huge city of soldiers a hundred feet 
underground. I felt I was in the New 
York subway — vast corridors, vast 
49 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

dormitories, vast dining rooms, chapel, 
theater, etc., etc. The Commandant in- 
vited us to drink champagne, and in 
the electric-hghted bowels of the earth 
we lifted our glasses a la Victoire. 

To find the motor we returned through 
the city ; it was no more hideous in 
the obscurity than an hour earlier. Ver- 
dun ! — the Bodies didn't get it — "on 
ne passe pas — on ne passe pas^' — a 
symbol forever of resistance, of splendor, 
of the forces that are more ferocious 
than death. We came home over a 
road lighted by cannon glare — Verdun. 
Toujours, Cherie, toujours, 

E, 

4<12eme Reg't d'Infanterie, 
4 Compagnie, Secteur 49. 

November 17, 1917. 

Cherie — 

To-day the Captain had an errand 

among a neighboring troop of x\lgerians. 

I went with him. The camp is in a 

wood. Late afternoon and getting glim- 

50 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 



mery. I wait in the muddy path. The 
scene is beautiful. I think of you. An 
autumn forest — bronzy and garnet, rus- 
set, cinnamon, rouge. Standmg about 
a huge can, paring potatoes — a great 
pile of them on the ground — is a group 
of Arabs. Others lean against trees (their 
uniforms are the color of the bark). 
By the doors of the barracks groups are 
singing. The trees are very tall and 
very still. It is chilly. Just that, and 
the night insinuating — it seems to gather 
into a picture — an old master — warm 
shadow, tinge, just felt gold, and the 
removing touch as though it were pre- 
cious and unperishable. I saw it. I 
thought of you. To-night my uniform 
smells good — as after hanging on a tree 
for a day. I have something from the 
November leaf, bough, vista. It puts 
me back there — under the tall trees — 
so I write it home to you. Do you think 
it too slight a pretext.? It is quite 
natural. I'm following a track — a 
splendid one, but thousands have found 
51 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

it fatal, and daily I'm obsessed — as 
though something inside, in spite of me,- 
were saying good-by — to communicate, 
to attach myself to you — to home. 
I would squeeze my heart into your 
hands, drop by drop. It is the heart, 
I believe, that remembers. I must tell, 
tell something. I must make a mark 
on the wall. So I write. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

November 26, 1917. 
Cherie — 

The Captain and I have just come in 
from a tour around the cantonment, 
inspecting the rolling kitchens. An in- 
teresting sight, these stoves on wheels — 
with the stew inside. The cook, a huge 
fork in his dirty hands, stands near by 
and the crowd of pathetic poilus gather 
around with their cups and pails. ^Vhen 
the stove door is opened golden spots 
break out over everything; even the 
mud (the mud here is grotesque) shows 
52 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 



a bright eye. Captain Pete takes a 
look at the meat, talks of the potatoes 
and the amount of sugar in the tea. 
I watch and have a little vision : sud- 
denly, behind the backs of these dreary, 
muddy, homesick soldiers, I see the 
treasures of Paris — the Venus from 
Milo — the rose windows of Notre Dame 
— the golden galleries of the Louvre — 
the gardens and avenues, quiet, sunny, 
leafy — all the splendors seeking safety, 
and finding it behind these little crowd- 
ing soldiers waiting for their pail of 
supper. Cherie, it is visions like this 
that keep me going. 

Well, Pete pronounces all is well and 
we go out of the shed, and walk up the 
hill toward the west. It is cold — an 
unearthly light on the slopes — and a 
star as big and calm as a cow is tethered 
in a faint green pasture. The north is 
black. We stop to admire the cow — 
rain on our faces — down the hill to 
the chalet vert. Before we arrive our 
coats are white with snow. 
53 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I've stepped out since to see, and 
behold the moon on duty ! Snow here 
is only make-believe. 

Good-night, 
E. 

December 6, 1917. 
Cherie — 

Last night I wrote you a letter in 
which I quoted a poem of Walt Whit- 
man (my great friend these days), and 
I left the book open on my table. This 
morning (I've nothing to do) my eye 
falls on the next poem, which is so beauti- 
ful and so good to remember these days 
that I copy it for us both. (You can- 
not hear and feel the bombardment I 
hear and feel as I write.) 

*'How solemn as one by one, 

As the ranks returning worn and 
sweaty, as the men file by where 
I stand, 
As the faces the masks appear, as I 
glance at the faces studying the 
masks 

54 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



(As I glance upward out of this page 
studying you, dear friend who- 
ever you are). 

How solemn the thought of my whis- 
pering soul to each in the ranks, 
and to you, 

I see behind each mask that wonder, a 
kindred soul. 

O the bullet could never kill what 
you really are, dear friend, 

Nor the bayonet stab what you really 
are. 

The soul ! yourself I see, great as any, 
good as the best, 

Waiting secure and content, which the 
bullet could never kill. 

Nor the bayonet stab, O friend." 

You must excuse me if I copy poetry 
into my letters; idle moments come, 
and shouldering a gun doesn't change 
a man ; besides I like the idea of a French 
poilu sending back to America the poems 
of the Civil War. It touches my fancy. 
It proves that we do not live by bread 
alone. 

Devotedly, 

E, 
55 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

December 10, 1917. 
Dear Mother — 

It is black night here. The church 
clock is sounding six. A high wind is 
tearing overhead. The green chalet 
creaks like a ship at sea. My face is 
still red and burning from my afternoon 
on the hill. I've been shooting. You 
will be amused to hear that I've the 
hardest work to get anybody to criticize 
me. Everybody is so nice, so polite. 
I think the next time I shall shoot wildly 
into the air like Colonel Cody, just to 
see if an officer will say, "Come, come, 
that's not the way to shoot." I think 
French people have an idea we Americans 
are born with a rifle in our mouth and 
a couple of carving knives in our hands, 
consequently, we can't go wrong before 
a target. This amuses and disconcerts 
me very much. To-morrow we are to 
work with an English machine gun. 
Eighteen hundred bullets a minute is 
the record. You can imagine the effect 
56 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

a half dozen of these guns would have on 
a regiment of soldiers. But of course 
both sides know this, so before advancing 
their men they try, by cannon, to destroy 
the machine gun. I've taken apart and 
put together a Hotchkiss machine gun 
so many times I could perform the trick 
in the pitch dark, which, the Captain 
tells me, is a military asset. 

But why do I write all this to you? 
I don't know unless it is to bring you as 
close as possible to my weird days. War 
and weapons are so fantastic. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

December 20, 1917. 
Cherie — 

Perhaps I'm too cold to tell you of 
my yesterday, but I'll try. With seven 
officers I went to Verdun (bitterly cold) 
to a funeral. 

A month ago there came to the Depot 
a lieutenant — a young man — a nice 
chap. He only stayed three or four 
57 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

days and was called to the front. A 
week ago at night he and a sergeant 
were trying to cut a path through the 
barbed wire six or seven yards away 
from the Boches, in order that his men, 
at dawn, might make a coup de main. 
An heroic thing to attempt — and he 
was shot (the sergeant also) in the hip, 
the bullet shattering the bone. By a 
miracle his men got to him and he w^as 
brought dying to the hospital "La Glo- 
rieuse" just near Verdun. Yesterday he 
was buried. The service was rapid but 
very impressive. 

We enter the impromptu chapel — 
a room in the rough, overworked hospital 
— helmet in hand. The chapel is in 
semi-darkness. Before the childish altar, 
guarded by three immobile soldiers, lies 
the box covered by his flag. A little 
white cushion at the head holds his 
two decorations — Croix de Guerre, Le- 
gion d'Honneur — the latter having been 
given him ten minutes before he died. 
The officers — his General (I am beside 
58 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

my Captain) — stand back a little. 
Every five minutes, of course, the win- 
dows rattle to a bombardment not far 
away. The priest comes and, hurriedly, 
reads the burial service. The solemnity 
of the box dominates. We follow, heads 
bare, the wagon to the cemetery. It 
isn't far. The landscape is white and 
cold. It is very beautiful. Fifteen thou- 
sand little crosses on a hillside. Three 
or four boxes unburied. Row after row 
of holes — waiting. The earth turned 
out this morning is a soft chocolate 
color. By the grave his Captain tells 
how he was killed. Les adieux supreme. 
One of the officers — a captain — who came 
with us weeps like a dear friend. The 
priest and the officers sprinkle the box with 
holy water. The cscouade that marched by 
the wagon, guns trailing, presents arms. 

Coming home, the Captain, who cried, 
said, — "Ah, Picton was a fine fellow, 
one could talk Chinese with him." 

Devotedly, 
E. 
59 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

December 24, 1917. 
Cherie — 

The Captain says — he looks over my 
shoulder — this is a triste picture to send 
home, but I feel differently. My land- 
scape having been dotted with mounds like 
this one (covered by the snow they look 
like birthday cakes), I've come to feel 
quite happy and friendly about them. 

This is Christmas eve and bitterly 
cold. I've been with two American 
officers all the afternoon. We talked 
*' weapons" and watched a sham attack. 
One was a colonel, the other was a 
captain — perhaps they were frozen 
(everybody was), perhaps merely stupid. 
I couldn't decide. Of course the situa- 
tion is very difficult for the American 
officer who doesn't speak French. And, 
as I say, the battlefield was Siberian. 
Our demonstration was over by four 
o'clock. We walked down the hill. A 
fine snow began to fall. Our path, 
through a wood, down the fields, led us 
by a group of little graves quite like 
60 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

the one I've pictured. To-night the 
thousands of merry soldiers making 
Christmas under the snow ! "Come fast 
and thick, little snowflakes, muffle from 
us, who are doomed to live a century, 
the music of their hilarity ; hide from 
us their ruby goblets, their knowing 
winks, their friendly nudges." 

Later (after dinner) I was interrupted 
by the appearance of a petit Adjudant 
come to invite the Captain and Monsieur 
H. to step into the officers' mess room 
before dinner to drink a toast. We went 
— it was charming, touching even. 
Eighteen rosy-faced men gathered around 
a narrow festive table. A huge turkey 
was broiling over the fire — it smelt good. 
Our glasses were lifted to La Belle 
France. It was decorated and gay and 
smiling — but, I fancy, not a patch 
beside the jovial splendors of their com- 
rades, out in the fields, snug under the 
snow, celebrating Christmas eve. 

Devotedly, 

E. 
61 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

December 26, 1917. 
Cherie — 

In a recent letter you inquire about 
the briquet marked "Verdun", and ask 
if I bought it there. Cherie, you could no 
more buy a briquet in Verdun than you 
could buy a fan in a cemetery ! You 
might risk your neck and climb up into 
a tottering house and pillage a broken 
mirror or a rain-soaked book — but you 
couldn't buy anything in Verdun. There 
is no one there to take your money. We 
wandered through the Bishop's Palace 
(not a ceiling intact) and took a worthless 
book from a repulsive heap on the library 
floor. Verdun is a hell of ruins. 

No, the briquet is made from a socket 
of a cartridge, by some clever poilu 
in an idle moment — in one of the sectors 
near Verdun. He gave it to an Ameri- 
can ambulance driver, who gave it to 
me. 

It's touching and amusing the way 
soldiers occupy themselves in spare times. 
62 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I write letters and, lately, draw pictures 
for you. I remember seeing a clumsy 
poilu painfully making his sweetheart's 
name on a sheet of paper by carefully 
inserting (it was early September) the 
yellow petals of some wild flower. He 
sat in a doorway and worked as though 
Victory was at stake. 

Paris is flooded with "rings" and 
briquets — the distraction of the poilus' 
empty hours. 

Man is a simple, painstaking child; 
it's the inflated hogs that set him fight- 
ing. 

Our world is made of snow and moon- 
light. 

Devotedly, 

E. 

December 30, 1917. 
Cherie — 

We're ordered South — just where no 
one as yet knows — but we're breaking 
camp — our knapsacks are packed — 
and to-morrow we depart. 
63 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Good-by, little valley, you've been 
a charming comrade. Good-by, poor 
little ruined village of snowy roofs and 
twisted apple boughs. Good-by, green 
chalet. Good-by, miserable stove. 
Good-by to the sunrises over the wood 

— to the mammoth star each sundown 
in the west. While I live I'll remember 
this village for the valley that ran away 
from it and the star that hung over it. 
Doubtlessly Venus will come with us, 
but I shall always think of her here — 
gold over the green chalet. 

God knows what awaits us south — 
perhaps a real house — perhaps shops 
and cafes and a thousand natural charms 

— perhaps everything quite otherwise 

— ugly and cold. But I'm not worry- 
ing. The uncertainty pleases me. I 
should think soldiering would, after a 
year or two, make every poilu a sort 
of Wandering Jew. I begin to under- 
stand the hired trooper of old — the 
soldier of fortune — who lived to fight 
and fought for the fun of it — going no 

64 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

matter where — now east, now west, 
or north or south, and finally to adven- 
tures in hell. (Just like the stay-at- 
home !) But in those days they didn't 
have to face the "curtain of fire", the 
gas, or the aeroplane bombs. Times 
have changed. War was quite "nice" 
in the sixteenth century. I fancy my 
"bit" will be all I care to meet. Here's 
hoping, Cherie, I do that bit bravely 
and come home victorious — along with 
my brothers in khaki. 

Happier New Year, 
E. 

January 3, 1918. 
^^ Somewhere else in France.'* 
Cherie — 

I'm just about as uncomfortable as 
I can be. I wrote you in my last letter 
we were about to change our canton- 
ment. That letter bore the date of 
December 30th. We were out of bed 
the next morning at three o'clock. I 
felt fresh and gay. The hubbub of 
65 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

starting is always exciting. It wasn't 
cold — the moon, although hidden, suf- 
fused a vague light over our world. We 
drank hot coffee and at five-thirty took 
to the open road. The station from 
which we were to embark was fifteen 
miles away. We reached it a little 
after nine. I was warm and happy — the 
slight pain in my legs being nothing to 
speak of. The station was no station 
at all — only a bleak track running 
betw^een a windy field and a windy ceme- 
tery. We waited there until four o'clock 
— a real torture. However, I shall re- 
member a pretty picture or two — a 
group of soldiers crouching over a tiny 
blaze of sticks (they had brought them 
on their backs) and another group load- 
ing the warm colored loaves of bread — 
hundreds of them — into a car. There 
was a thunder in the gray air from 
the eleven hundred men stamping their 
freezing feet. The train pulled away 
at four o'clock — it was fast growing 
dark. A perfectly miserable night — 
66 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

cold, cold, cold. Everybody suffered. 
At five o'clock in the morning — New 
Year's Day — we piled out into the 
falling snow of our somewhere else in 
France. We waited and waited and 
waited (a nice poilu treated me to a cup 
of coffee). The day came up in a glory 
of rose and yellow, A charming old 
city awoke around us — my tired eyes 
admired in every direction — I felt sud- 
denly glad. The plantain trees in the 
square seemed enormously tall and un- 
real. The houses along the river jum- 
bled together, snowy and lovely. Over 
a wall I saw a garden with marble 
statues. The steeple bellowed out a 
jangle of bells. At the ends of all the 
twisting streets, hills covered with vine- 
yards. iVt ten o'clock our barrack was 
found — at half-past ten I was slipping 
off my luggage in the Captain's room. 
We are lodged chez a wine merchant, in 
what I should call his "cold room." 
The bed is superb — God be praised 
— the stove is a porcelain joke — my 
67 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

compliments to the Devil who made it. 
We lack fuel, and as everybody is busy 
getting settled there are no exercises, 
so I'm left to freeze. Something that 
amazes me very much is the difficulty 
the poor soldier has in finding a place 
to live. No one is ready to let him in — 
and when his Captain forces the situa- 
tion, it is always chez les pauvres. The 
well-to-do houses will not open their 
doors — and he is suffering for La Belle 
France. This is a large, prosperous city, 
and yet eleven hundred of its country- 
men arrive here in the cruel winter 
dawn and not a single person is on hand 
to offer a cup of coft'ee or a warm corner. 
I cannot understand it — the strange 
selfishness in the world is awful. We 
are aching for firewood, yet no one 
seems to dream of cutting down one of 
the handsome plantain trees — why not, 
I wonder.'^ Human life is the cheapest 
thing in the world. 

While writing this letter Boutrais (the 
Captam's valet and our friend) had 
68 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

brought in an armful of wood — the 
gift of the wine merchant's wife ; the 
stove — it is as formidable as Grant's 
tomb — is lighted and when it is through 
heating itself, it will, if any wood is 
left, heat us. Remembering my com- 
rades in the straw, I'm duly thankful 
to the wine merchant's wife. Let me 
recall that the first week in a canton- 
ment is always a difficult time — later, 
I may be quite happy and comfortable 
here — and find time and spirit to write 
you as heretofore. Meanwhile we are 
in the New Year. What will 1918 bring 
to us — to you — to me ? La Paix, I 
hope — a home-coming and the good 
old times again. The day after to- 
morrow makes me thirty-six — what bet- 
ter could I be doing than trying to help 
my brothers — myself — through this old 
valley of tears.? I'm uncomfortable but 
I'm happy — 

Devotedly, 

E. 



69 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

January 19, 1918. 
Cherie — 

I'm ready to take a bath with any- 
body, a horse even, provided the water 
is hot. It's over three weeks since I 
saw enough hot water to scrub all over 
in. I'm tired of rubbing 'round with 
a face cloth. How dirty I shall be next 
week ! The order is come we are to 
leave here in thirty-six hours, and march 
for six days. I shall feel like a side 
show in a circus doing one-day stands. 
The world is groaning, but I look for- 
ward to the strain with pleasure. The 
weather is mild, the snow and ice gone, 
my shoes are thick ; what terrors has 
a six-days' tramp for me ? I shall be 
sorry to leave here. I'm just beginning 
to discover the beauty of this "some- 
where in France." It is indeed a mar- 
velous landscape. In its summer clothes 
it must be unsurpassable. 

A day or two ago Pete and I walked 
some half dozen miles and I saw valleys 
70 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

and wooded hills and vistas I shall 
never forget. One little hamlet has left 
a painting on the wall of my memory 
as though I were the Louvre and it my 
masterpiece. I would need be a poet 
to tell you how it lay in the vase of the 
russet hills. Its houses were pink and 
lemon, and regarded themselves in a 
river shaded like a peacock's tail. I 
forgot I was a fire-breathing soldier and 
thought myself some traveler in the 
land of romance. "Oft have I traveled 
in the lands of gold — " but this corner 
was wine-color and peacock and lemon 
and rose. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

January 23, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

I begin my letter in the style of our 
Benjamin Franklin. Never cross a bridge 
until you come to it — for ninety-nine 
times out of a hundred when you come 
to the river the bridge will be stronger 
71 



^iV AMERICAN POILU 

and less unpleasant than you could have 
imagined. 

Behold your poilu on the second day 
of our long march, feeling like Buffalo 
Bill and Jack Johnson rolled into one. 
We left the gray town of the Chateau 
yesterday morning before seven o'clock. 
It was pitch dark. Over hill and dale, 
carrying our house on our back, we 
marched until noon, when we arrived 
in a weird Emily Bronte sort of a village, 
lately inhabited by a company of Ameri- 
can soldiers. 

An hour later the cook produced an 
excellent hot luncheon, and after eating 
I was free to go to bed, which I did, sleep- 
ing like a judge or the lazy "Beauty" 
in the fairy tale until purple eve. Awak- 
ening, I found I had lost the aches in 
my legs and shoulders. Pete was shav- 
ing — I shaved — and we went up the 
hill to dinner. The popote was in a 
house as old and solid and forlorn as 
Wuthering Heights. The rooms vast 
and in a state of incalculable clutter. 
72 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Little boys and girls seemed to be going 
to bed in every dark corner. I wasn't 
surprised at all to encounter Americans 
there — a young lieutenant and three 
soldiers. The officer was pleased to see 
any one from home, especially in a 
French uniform, and begged me to sit 
by his stove for an hour after dinner. 
I did so with pleasure. He is a Yale 
boy of the "right sort", feeling very 
lonely so far from New Haven. We 
talked war and weapons and I felt like 
a veteran of 1870. At nine o'clock, 
he lighted me through the Bronte village 
to my lodging. "The pleasantest even- 
ing I've had since being in France," he 
said. 

"Good-night, good luck, Lieuten- 
ant S." 

I had difficulty pushing open the 
door, and when I got inside a funny old 
woman in a nightcap (I could see by the 
candle) stuck lier head out of a bed 
in the wall and bade me turn the key. 
The room had a vast fireplace, and from 
73 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

the rafters hung the huge sides of a red 
pig. I said "Bon soir" to Madame 
and her pig, and went up the dangerous 
stairs to our room — a perfect Bronte 
chamber — one entire wall of cupboards. 
I opened some — strange treasure boxes 
covered in old style colored paper — dried 
bouquet of mistletoe tied with yellow 
ribbon — dresses old as the wainscot 
and not especially good to smell — 
basques turned outside in, showing any 
amount of whalebone. The bed was 
billowy and draped by a chintz canopy. 
The Captain was asleep. Being on the 
outside edge, I was first to respond to 
the four o'clock alarm. We drank bowls 
of coffee at Wuthering Heights and are 
on the black road by five-thirty. Pete 
is on his horse. He gallops ahead. I 
will make the road with some fifty men 
sent in advance to prepare the canton- 
ment. I march between an adjutant 
and a sergeant. We are en tete — we 
are all long-legged and we set a merry 
pace. Day came over the fields as 
74 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

sweetly as a blond child. At eight 
o'clock we see a church steeple standing 
up in the farther meadows. Down a 
splendid hill, singing, and we enter the 
new village. It is new to us, but the 
moon has known it for seven hundred 
years or more. The Captain, who thinks 
I have a cold, turns up and leads me 
into a queer house where I buy a bowl 
of delicious hot milk. Quarters are found 
for the men, and at nine o'clock the 
regiment marches in, gun on the shoulder 
— a chic sight. 

This room is made splendid by its 
fire. There are two high beds — the 
window is dripping rain. In the ad- 
joining "piece" there's a little pink 
pig in a tub. He squeals ! Napoleon 
III stands beside a headless Saint on 
the mantle. The night-tables are so 
narrow and the pots so wide you can 
hardly get the latter out or in. 

The Sammies left here last week and 
the village youngsters are wearing their 
silly hats — the army is to discard the 
75 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

sombrero, I'ra told. In the ashes, I 
found letters from Taunton to "Herb." 
His mother wrote him to be a good boy. 
Herb had forgotten his little Bible with 
Wilson's recommendation on the front 
page. 

After luncheon (stewed rabbit) the 
Commandant, Pete and I inspected the 
church. It was born in the 11th cen- 
tury. It contains the brilliant and child- 
like tomb of Saint Florentin, and a series 
of naive paintings telling of his awful 
temptations and how he overcame them. 
In one picture he is the center of a group 
of lovely ladies, richly dressed ; in the 
next only the dresses are lovely — the 
ladies' teeth have become like those in 
sharks' mouths and their hands are 
long green claws. Comparing the two 
paintings, it was evident, as far as Saint 
Florentin was concerned, the ladies had 
gone to a great deal of trouble for noth- 
ing — you simply can't please some peo- 
ple is the moral, I presume. 

Well, dear, the length of this letter 
76 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

shows you the first and second days of 
our long journey haven't exhausted me. 
To-morrow we rest ; as a matter of 
fact the regiment isn't in training for 
a sudden marching test (France is tired) 
so for the start it has been intelligently 
arranged not to kill us. The last four 
days are bound to be strenuous ; how- 
ever, as Mr. Franklin says, etc., etc. 

My letter stops simply because my 
pen is weary. Give kisses and love to 
your world. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

412e//ie Re(/t cVInfanterie, 
ieme Compagnie, Secteur 49. 

January 31, 1918. 

Dear Mother — 

My last letter told you of the first 
two days of our long march. When I 
wrote we were resting for twenty-four 

hours in the town where the mild ^ 

is buried. Now I will try to take you 

^ Censored. 
77 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

along the rest of the route. It is not 
easy to remember in detail. The week 
merges into a confusion of charming 
towns, moonlit roads, changing land- 
scapes, queer lodgings, weird inns and 
alternating sensations of exhaustion and 
repose. I recall putting your St. Floren- 
tin letter into its envelope and almost 
immediately after putting myself into 
bed, where I slept until Pete's little 
alarm turned us out somewhere in the 
neighborhood of four o'clock. ^Ye had, 
as is our habit, arranged everything 
the night before, so, in no time, we were 
in uniform and waiting on the bridge 
for the order to march. The morning 
air was cold and in the valleys clouds 
of snowj'' mist. I was glad I had on 
Margaret's sweater — however, I could 
have dispensed with it after an hour's 
marching and singing. We climbed a 
hill and met the sun on the top. Our 
journey was eastward, so he stayed on 
our helmets until nearly noon. (To be 
exact, I should write faces for helmets.) 
78 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



The day was magnificent — like a tenor 
voice — the fields rolling and larks singing 
as in April. We marched up and down, 
on and on, through half a hundred for- 
gotten hamlets. The old dames and the 
girls smile in the doorways as we go by. 
In one town was stationed a regiment 
of Sammies. A company lined up along 
the main street and whistled a march 
to our tread. Wilson's soldiers are im- 
pressively lanky. I don't believe there's 
a hip in his whole army. I was amused 
to be asked by several of my comrades 
what the Americans meant by whistling 
at us. "A compliment," I answered; 
"they didn't whistle at us but for us." 
In France you only whistle at a man in 
derision. However, the Sammies whistled 
so beautifully I fancy the point wasn't 
lost by the poilus. Every fifty minutes 
a signal is given. We make a double 
column facing the road, stack our guns, 
as you have seen them in pictures, slip 
off the sack — and we are free for ten 
minutes to eat, drink, etc., etc. It is 
79 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

amazing — the restorative power of ten 
minutes. Pete always insists I eat some- 
thing — and has never forgotten (his 
orderly carries it) to supply me with 
chicken, eggs, bread, etc. ; I carry my 
own bidon of thin wine. At each stop- 
ping place, the poilu pulls out his huge 
round loaf of bread and eats a generous 
hunk. Often lie opens a little can of 
sardines, or *' singe", as he calls beef. 
We are quite like a big family of boys — 
each shares with the other. I've never 
seen a stingy gesture. The poilu is 
surely touched by divinity. I've seen 
him so, so tired, watched his back stoop- 
ing gradually forward under the weight 
of the precious sack — some one starts 
a song, we all join in and the pace 
quickens. The poilu is surely touched 
by divinity. I have heard it in his voice 
and seen it in his eye. 

At noon we crossed a bridge. The 

river was pure and shallow. The journey 

is ended for the day. We are in the 

birthplace of miracles and mystery — 

SO 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

it is ^ country. I'm as tired as I've 

never been before — I feel parched and 
thin. The town of that day's canton- 
ment had a ^ and our bedroom was 

very Hke a neglected tomb, chez sl neg- 
lected old crone, who said she was al- 
ways amiable, and indeed the poor old 
body was — doing what she could for 
us in the way of clean sheets, hot water, 
and early next morning giving us bowls 
of coffee. I'm sure her coffee pot was 
a horror, but her act was patriotic and 
a soldier asks for nothing more. As I 
say, I was dog tired and believed I should 
never walk again, except under military 
orders, but a change of shoes and a good 
luncheon set me up sufficiently to follow 
Pete across the meadow^s (two miles) 

to take a look at .^ As usual with 

birthplaces, it was disappointing — both 
church and house being Ixidly "done 
over" — but I was vaguely pleased to 
see the soil of the land that had produced 
so remarkable a young lady as Miss .^ 

^ Censored. 

81 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

On the lonely hillside where she is sup- 
posed to have seen the ^ was tend- 
ing her sheep when they appeared, a 
church has been built possessing all 
the faults of modern religious archi- 
tecture. 

The following day I shall remember 
for its mountainous roads and our vivid 
descents into valleys floating with morn- 
ing colored mists. One had the impres- 
sion we were about to march into a 
fairy sea. The tops of the occasional 
village stood up like gilded wreckage 
from the foam. Sometimes the ravine 
was so sheer along the side of our road 
that I felt pictorial — as though we were 
a gallant fresco on a high palace wall. 

So we reached the next cantonment — 
not an especially pretty town — but 
our chamber was a sunny paradise con- 
taining two tall beds. Before luncheon 
we drank port sitting on stools by the 
enormous fireplace in an ancient inn. 
To my eye, it composed into a Rem- 

' Censored. 
82 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

brandt picture, rich in tone and old — 
old and crimson and brown. The women 
folks were buxom and talkative. Their 
cheeks, even those of the grandmother, 
were brilliantly red. The arrival of our 
regiment had set the slumberous place 
into a warm activity. Getting into bed 
that night I encountered a hot stone 
jug — my hostess had put it there — 
it made me feel as cosy as a married 
man. What a good night's sleep ! 

The fifth day was the hardest one for 
me. I left an hour before the regiment, 
with the men sent ahead to prepare the 
cantonment. We sang in the moonlight. 
The fields were a lacework of hoar 
frost. The road often slippery and diffi- 
cult — but ever the Beauty sailing in 
the brilliant air — the Beauty that never 
forsook us — and which led us to the 
village of white houses under the in- 
spired hill. Tliere I had a bad quarter 
of an hour; your old demon, "the 
shake", assailed me. I trembled and 
chattered like a miserable ghost. I re- 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

covered in a cup of hot milk. Mon 
Dieu ! I was tired. After luncheon, if 
you will believe it, I climbed "/a colline 
inspiree'' and saluted the marvelous view 
— it was Shakespearean. 

The next and last day I thought (on 
getting out of bed) would knock me 
out — but the week's training carried 
me through — and I gained the canton- 
ment (it was a long road) in as bright 
a condition as the best. Here we were 
to remain for ten days. Here is a 
good-sized city and we are lodged in 
the lady's chamber. Her bed is all 
right, but her pictures might easily pre- 
vent one from sleeping. The window 
looks to the square which is gay with 
officers of all ranks and ages. Yesterday 
some one was decorated and the band 
played "Sambre et Meuse." Our regi- 
ment is seven miles away. We are with 
the Commandant, he requesting the Cap- 
tain's presence and mine also. I have 
nothing to do but rest and write letters 
and watch the manners of the town. 
84 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Well, dear, if I write any more to this 
letter, its envelope will burst en route 
and bestrew the roaring ocean with my 
manuscript. Besides, I've performed my 
stunt — the six days' march is over — 
and there's nothing left to do but make 
a sign of love and seal it with my name — 
"He that thou knowest thine," 

E. 

February 10, 1918. 
CJierie — 

The air is full of bells and a rose and 
yellow sunset is on the hill. Day dies 
deliciously and on its wing I cross home. 
Don't tell me it is noon with you ; call 
this twilight ours ; we are upstairs 
in the vagueness, talking. You are mur- 
muring something from your favorite 
Tom Kettle, and I'm telling you of the 
show I saw the other day. "Jamais 
Deux sans Trois", it was named — 
being the product of certain members 
of the 1st Regiment of Zouaves. It was 
a lightning-quick revue of life in the 
85 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

trenches, — jolly songs, silly poems and 
soldiers dressed as ballet girls. You 
may ask how girls could appear in the 
trenches. They danced out of the heads 
of the dreaming poilus. Although I 
sat with the officers very near the stage, 
I couldn't discover but what the men 
made lovely girls ; there seemed to be 
no limit to their girlishness ; by that 
I mean we saw both high and low, their 
skirts being brief as love and their 
basques cut for Mary Garden. I've 
seen some real "stars" who couldn't 
put forth so pink and plump a front. 
They were killing. Of course nothing 
escaped parody ; even les mutiles^ al- 
though brought in on stretchers, leaped 
off of them and waved their bloody 
bandages and sang like merry mad men. 
It was all well worked up and infinitely 
droll. The hall (in a hospital) was 
packed like a beehive — we who hadn't 
yet "gone" and those who had come 
back ; these latter, poor boys, grinning 
at the fun through some laxity, as it 
86 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

were, on death's part. But Death him- 
self, I fancy, must be getting rather 
tired of dying. Anyway, he was a long- 
ways off that afternoon ; it was all 
jingle and nonsense and peals of laughter. 
Now, Cherie, I must go back to my 
*' Somewhere in France." This night 
wind will take me. I leave you by the 
singing log. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Fehruarij 18, 1918. 
Cherie — 

Don't grow indifferent to inkpots ; my 
greatest pleasures are therein nowadays. 

We are having some stinging cold 
weather which somehow has rudely dis- 
appointed me. Of course the same thing 
happens each year and I should have 
known it was meant for a joke, but I 
was fooled ; the springlike days of last 
week merely gave us a look and ran 
away and hid. Everything is frozen 
tight to-night. However, I console my- 
87 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

self by thinking others were gulled. 
Madame set out a bed of lettuce plants. 
Primroses and daisies bloomed by the 
wall ; poor things, I don't know what 
they did with themselves last night — 
quietly froze to death, I suppose. 

Did I ever tell you of the murder we 
had in camp ? Oh ! it happened two 
months ago. In a cafe, where every 
one was more or less "drunk", a man 
in our company shot two bullets into a 
friend. Nothing, of course, strange about 
that, but the man who had the bullets 
in his belly was so "drunk" he didn't 
know for a moment that he was shot. 
He walked (?) to his barrack and rolled 
into his cot and fell fast asleep. He was 
found next morning not only dead as 
dead could be from the bullets but 
frozen stiff as a poker. And this reminds 
me of the meat I saw to-day — it was 
being unloaded from a van and cut 
with an ax and distributed. I stopped 
to watch the red sight and one of the 
butchers told me that the meat had 
88 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

come from Chicago in the same cold 
storage cars in wliich it had been packed 
two years ago. It was beautiful looking 
beef. We are eating some of it to-night. 
So you see my blood still flows from 
U. S. A. Long live Uncle Sam ! 

The Captain and I have been this 
afternoon to see two officers in a hospital. 
They were wounded on our champ de tir 
three days ago. A grenade prematurely 
exploded, knocking out three teeth from 
the jaw of one officer and completely 
tearing away the hand from the arm 
of the other. It was a horrid sight. 
One can't imagine the suffering. Not 
the least atom of his hand could be 
found — blown to air. The poor chap 
was very unhappy this afternoon ; every- 
thing was black before him. Curiously 
enough, h^ said he could still feel his 
fingers. The officer who lost three teeth 
was bandaged to his merry little eyes 
and wore his *' bonnet de police." He 
looked very funny 

E. 
89 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

March 10, 1918. 
CJierie — 

I'm a brute. It's your birthday and 
it's a free Sunday and I should be think- 
ing only of writing you a ream of letters 
instead of this word to tell what of 
course you very well know — that IMarch 
10th means you and so we love it. Please 
forgive me for omitting the reams (poetry, 
news, pictures, etc.). You see, for all 
I'm thinking of you, I'm also thinking 
of a story which must be copied into 
your book. 

Yes, "it" has developed into a book — 
a little book of short stories which will 
be charmingly titled "Dear Emily." 
Five stories are already finished (how 
they will amuse you), and as my time 
is short, too, they must be put into one 
book. My knapsack doesn't admit of 
many stray manuscripts (no matter how 
good or how bad). It tickles me, the 
thought of "stories" on my sweating 
back. Out of my head, off of my back, 
90 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

down at your feet. When the collection 
is complete it shall sail home. 

No permission as yet — just as well. 
Paris was bombed last night, and I 
would far rather die at the front in the 
confusion and the tumult than in Paris 
in a cafe or a bed. \Mien do I go to 
the actual fighting front ? I don't know, 
but I'm ready to follow any orders. 

Has She come to M. yet ? She is 
here — bushes in leaf and flower, and 
that way of Hers on the fields and in my 
heart. If I were human I should be 
homesick but — but — 

The lovely river is alive with poilus 
washing their clothes and their bodies. 
Their shirts and drawers are stretched 
wide on the tombstones of the churchyard 
to dry. I should love to wash my clothes 
in the river. 

I lunched with a colonel yesterday, 
a charming soldier. 

But you are making me forget my story. 

Devotedly, 

E. 
91 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

March 16, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

I am marched away to another "Some- 
where m France." We made the twen- 
ty-six miles yesterday by starhght and 
sunrise. A poetical experience, during 
which I burned the ends of my two 
great toes. Arriving, I took off my 
good shoes and found your perfect socks 
in a condition resembling mush — tramp, 
tramp and sweat, sweat. But one soon 
forgets the toes and only the pursuing 
beauty remains. What exquisite fields 
and rivers and towns I have seen at 
dawn — And too the Spring has come — 
leaves on the willows and tassels and 
furry tips. The meadows near by are 
blue with a little blossom like a star. 
I inclose one in this letter. 

Well, here isn't at all attractive, for 
all the Spring and her blue eyes. Here 
is a vast camp on a w^indy plateau which 
to-day's sunshine makes possible, but 
which a spell of rain would render almost 
92 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

deadly. The good Captain and I are 
lodged in a tiny, tiny box in a long 
barrack. My bed is three planks. Last 
night, however, I was thankful for just 
that, and with all, or nearly all, my clothes 
on me, slept fairly well. I shall have 
less in the trenches, but I'm out for 
the less which is, after all, the more. 

Next week we go for our deferred 
permission. I'm quite ready for it, I 
assure you. Ten days in Paris and after 
— I wonder ? Be confident that no mat- 
ter what the "after" brings I shall be 
content. Only I do hope I won't be 
taken prisoner ; that would be most 
tiresome. I want to kill and kill and 
then come home. Doesn't it seem a 
long time since I went away? But 
you have been so near me this last year 
and a half — and always so lovely and 
kind. I think you are beautiful. 

Devotedly, 

E. 



9S 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

March 30, 1918. 

I'm not sure of my date. It is the 
Saturday before Easter. Cherie, well, 
here I am a long, long way from the 
windy plateau. We took to the road. 
How bright shone the moon ! I was 
loaded like a pack mule. As we knew 
not but that we might go directly into 
battle, I carried everything I might 
need on my back, which included a 
good many cartridges, of course, and 
bread and wine. And so we marched 
until eight o'clock (how the larks sang 
when the sun came up, and the river — 
I mustn't forget how beautiful it looked 
covered with a golden smoke !). And 
"there" we halted and stacked our guns 
and found a funny little cafe and drank 
wine and waited and waited. 

At eleven o'clock four miles of motor 
trucks arrived and w^e piled in, one on 
top of the other. We rode until ten 
o'clock the next day. Well, I hope 
I shall not be asked to repeat that 
94 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

experience ; it sounds easy enough on 
paper, but in reality it was very painful. 
Dust, dust, dust, and not room enough 
to shift a leg. By nightfall we were four 
miles of blistered buttocks. The smell of 
the gasoline made us all sick. Dust — 
dust — dust — it transformed us into 
old images thrown on an ash heap. It 
turned our hair and beards into starched 
lace. It made us look like fat mummies. 
It was awful. We rode on through 
the night. I could not sleep. The others 
plumped together like powdery dolls. 
The Doctor sagged on my shoulder, 
murmuring something about "la belle 
France resting on the shoulder of Uncle 
Sam." I was hot and feverish — great 
fatigue excites me. The Lieutenant on 
my other shoulder was shivering with 
cold. I tried to diffuse some of my 
warmth in his direction. Pete was hang- 
ing forwaj-d, dozing and swinging like 
a pendulum. The dust on his face 
becoming purple, I awakened him. 
At one o'clock we were given two 
95 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

hours' rest. The town ahead was being 
bombarded. Pete and I, nearly cramped 
to death, got out of the truck and lay 
down on the plowed field. The moon 
was brilliant. I slept on the ground 
for an hour ; I can hardly say I rested. 
At three o'clock we were riding again — 
on through the dawn and the early 
day. At ten o'clock we arrived. As 
in a dream I saw our landscape was hilly 
and charming. But I thought only of 
something to eat and a place to sleep. 
Both were given me and, as I told H., 
I knew the divinity of food and straw. 
The dish of hot soup was more precious 
than the walls of St. Peter's ! 

I am with the Captain, who is lodged 
over a bakery. The machine that kneads 
the dough arouses us at four o'clock — 
by noon our room is fragrant with the 
warm smell of new bread. 

I have looked over the countryside ; 
it is lovely — disappearing hills of vine- 
yards — red villages — fields blue with 
spring. I find le mouton among the 
96 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

violets. How long we shall remain here 
nobody knows. We may all be fighting 
in twenty-four hours or we may be 
living quietly over a bakeshop. The 
air is charged with the future. The Eng- 
lish are retreating, but only for reasons 
of strategy, I fancy. We await news 
of the reaction. The thousands and 
thousands of boys suffering makes the 
blood curdle. Recently a colonel, who 
had "done" the battle of Ypres, told 
me that in one day in that battle the 
English lost tw^elve thousand men from 
seven in the morning until sunset — but 
— Ypres was an English victory ! Alas, 
that the wings of Victory should be 
colored like the wings of Defeat. 

I am glad to read that Muck has been 
arrested. How absurd for America to 
give her sons and her dollars and at the 
same time honor men like Muck ! Do 
not trust a German. The race is de- 
praved. Before the battle of the Marne 
the Bodies rested in this little hamlet 
for five days and departing took away 
97 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

in wagons, brought for the purpose, all 
the linen from the little homes. Dirty, 
dirty Germans. 

Well, Cherie, make your garden beauti- 
ful — put rose bushes around your doors. 

Devotedly, 

E. 

April 4, 1918. 
CJierie — 

We approach the great event. It may 
be I shall come back ; it may be I shall 
touch the happy isles and see the great 
Ulysses ; but whatever port I make, 
no new and unheard-of beauty can ever 
ask me to forget you — never — never. 

Listen — if it is to be this spring, 
Madame S. will send you the manuscript 
of "Dear Emily." Needless to say it 
is unfinished — merely a sketch of what 
I could make it — and the loveliest 
stories are in my head. 

The change of late has been enormous 
for me. I am separated from the Cap- 
tain. I am with the poilus. Every 
98 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

one is kind and I am very happy. Noth- 
ing can prevent me from doing my best. 
I am strong and well, although my feet 
are blistered and my back tired. The 
beautiful Captain has done everything 
in his power to make things easier for 
me, but — war is war. 

My dreams are my support ; they 
transform everything. I bend down like 
a Greek god and bandage my heels. 
I decorate my luggage with turquoise 
and scarlet. I see you and mother like 
two tall Queens in a story and your 
years as long and gray as Northern Sagas. 
I transform in order to endure. Do you 
understand ? And yet I never forget — 
never — I've a thousand chances for 
returning, but know I am happy, what- 
ever the issue. I may have time to 
write you again before the battle — I 
don't know — 

My love — 

Your devoted 
E. 



99 



AN AMERICAN FOILU 

April 4, 1918. 
My Beloved Mother — 

So many things to tell you, so many, 
many things that would make you laugh, 
but my present conditions do not permit 
my pen to cut any capers. As I told 
E., I have left the beautiful Captain 
and I am living like the least of the 
poilus. It is very amusing and I am 
very happy. Something deeper than my 
soul is singing inside, and if the song 
doesn't fail me I shall not suffer, what- 
ever befalls me. You would not know 
me. I hardly know myself. I sleep 
on a dirty bag of straw — I eat from 
my half -washed tin dish — I scrub my 
own soiled clothes. I simply cannot 
keep myself clean. All I have I carry 
on my back ; how I manage to I don't 
know. Your dear eyes would fill with 
tears if I could tell you how my shoulders 
have ached ! But — there is the song — 
I'm happy. 

We are going into battle very soon. 
100 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

It will probably be the greatest battle 
in history. I'm glad my feet have almost 
unconsciously led me into it. What- 
ever befalls me you will be brave and 
proud. So many have given so much 
more ! If I return I will entertain you 
with my stories for the long rest of 
your life. If I am detained here by 
some disaster you will think of me as 
"away" but happy. 

For the moment it is quiet in the 
barrack. The men are outside clean- 
ing the courtyard. It is raining and 
birds are singing under the eaves. To- 
morrow we shall be far from this serenity. 
Daily we are marching — a huge army 
— nearer la musique. I am a mitrailleur. 
"\Mio knows but what I shall win the 
war cross? When the world is howling 
around me, somewhere inside I shall be 
thinking of you — and I shall be happy. 
^Mien I look at these men with whom I 
shall face the fire I know I shall be strong 
enough to stand by them. They are 
young and tired and no braver than 
101 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

they are, and they go forward and I go 
with them, if not a half a step ahead — 
I think of you and it helps to remember 
you will be brave and proud. 

Forever and forever, 

E. 

April 5, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

My gun is shining, my knapsack is 
in apple-pie order, all my buttons are 
sewed on tightly, and I'm half clean, — 
having stripped off by the river and 
washed myself up and down. After 
which I scrubbed my one and only 
towel. All this is to say I'm ready to 
advance and do and die. We await 
orders — the intense yet empty minute 
is to you. I'm sitting on a bundle of 
straw in the Captain's abri. It is four 
o'clock in the afternoon — a charming 
day — warm and blue and musical with 
larks — only the howl of the cannon 
breaks the serenity of this old battle- 
field. Ruins and soldier graveyards are 
102 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



as tranquil as gardens in afternoon. 
Everything waits. 

Well, the change came Easter morn- 
ing by telephone. The Captain was 
ordered to join the regiment (as you 
know we have spent the winter at the 
Depot), and I was put into the first 
company of the mitrailleuses. So in a 
hurry we packed up, said good-by with 
tears in the eyes to our Commandant 
B., and left the little room over the 
bakery. The regiment was lodged some 
miles away. We drove at twilight 
through enchanting country, and arrived 
at eight o'clock. I dined with our new 
Commandant in a handsome old chateau. 
It had been occupied by the Boches 
before the battle of the Marne. Before 
leaving they had smashed all the tall 
mirrors in the lovely old rooms. 

The next day we did a long march 
and on reaching the new cantonment 
I followed my comrades into the barn. 
You cannot imagine what a change 
it was for me nor how quickly I became 
103 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

wonted to the conditions, or how happy 
I feel at being one with the common 
soldier, come good luck or bad. They 
are charming and pathetic and devoted 
to me. They are all my friends — that 
makes the charm of the exhausting 
conditions. My God ! what conditions 
— and yet, somehow for me, lit by a 
splendor that falls from some inner 
vision — some happy vision in me — 
some gift from you. Well, and so I 
make my bed on the floor (last night 
it was on the ground) and I wash in 
the brook and I carry my house on 
my back. I dine with my tin dish 
on a stone or on my knees, and I love 
it and I'm happy. But if only I survive 
to tell you about it — what fun ! And, 
dear, if I don't come home how splendid 
that my feet carried me into the battle 
for civilization — how splendid to re- 
member your son also helped to hold 
the banner — the torch. 

E. 



104 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

April 7, 1918. 
Cherie — 

How amused you would be to see 
me making my toilet in the river. I 
thought of you and your love of "mod- 
ern improvements" this morning at six 
o'clock, as I walked down through the 
dew and barbed wire — now and again 
jumping an old trench — to my salle de 
bain. Although it has certain incon- 
veniences, still, from a decorative point 
of view, I fancy it rivals the baths of 
Caracalla. It varies daily. This morn- 
ing I found it "done up" in silver and 
lettuce green, the ceiling a pinkish cloud 
— here and there huge bouquets of 
aubepine and almond blossoms. The 
pink sprigs of the latter remind me of 
Hebrew written on the air. Before roll- 
ing up my sleeves I paused to listen 
to the birds. R. L. S. slipped by in 
his canoe. I scrubbed and returned 
to the half awakened abri fresh — but 
not as fresh as a May morn. 
105 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

My first night on the ground I slept 
like Homer — being dog weary — but 
the nights since have been very diffi- 
cult for me. My hip bones seem to 
have a persistent desire to bore down 
to the bowels of the earth. I lie awake 
for hours — the awful cannon for enter- 
tainment. My comrades are snoring 
away like locomotives, which tells me 
sleeping on the ground is a habit. I 
shall soon acquire it and sleep (perhaps 
snore) w^ith them. 

At six a little poilu with straw stick- 
ing in his beard comes in and shouts 
*'je jus." He carries a black canvas 
pail. It brings the coffee — hot and too 
sweet — but nevertheless I drink two 
cups with pleasure. Then I take my 
towel and soap and go to the river. 

To-day it began to rain at eight 
o'clock — a cold fine rain. We were 
obliged to spend the morning in the 
abri, sitting on the straw. It is too 
dark to read or write. I came up after 
la soupe to say Bon Jour to Pete, but 
106 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

his little hole was empty. I sat down 
and wrote a letter. You have it in 
your hand. 

E. 

April 11, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

My head is feeling too light to make 
a pen walk more than a step to tell you 
I have arrived (two hours after mid- 
night) in my first trench. The journey 
to it was a crucifixion — long — ex- 
hausting — violent ; however, my back 
did not crack open and I was not killed. 
And the trench ? It is a deep ditch filled 
with yellow glue. We are to spend the 
nights there. In the dawn, before Fritz 
can see us, we slip into a little wood 
near by, and rolled in our blanket sleep 
on the ground. To-day I slept like 
a baby, for all the cannon rip and split 
and sing over my head. They never 
stop. I awoke and saw the sun falling 
through little green leaves. The wood 
is abloom with violets — the birds sing. 
107 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

It isn't pleasant to wake up on the 
ground in one's helmet and wet shoes, 
yet I'm happy — and hungry (nothing 
to eat to-day save bread). The cannon 
never stop on either side — it is hellish 
— it is indescribable. 

Although I cannot, for the present, 
write, my memory holds every detail 
and you shall hear my story when I 
come home. 

What were you and E. doing April 
10th .f^ It was a frightful time for me. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

In the Trench. 
April 12, 1918. 

Cherie — 

Before trying to get a wink of sleep 
I send you word. I have watched all 
night while a demoniacal bombardment 
went over my head. The stars and 
I were calm. At daybreak, into the 
woods — two hours' sleep — and then 
a shave and off with my shoes to rest 
108 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

my feet. Now I will sleep again. Fritz 
is bombarding, but not with enthusiasm. 
We hear the shell coming, guess at 
its trajectory and hide ourselves accord- 
ingl}^ Running back and forth soon 
gets tiresome, so now I propose to trust 
in the Lord and sleep. 

A day of a blue divinity — violets 
and a frail, unnamed yellow blossom 
hang over the trenches. When the 
trenches are dry they are not so bad, 
but where we pass our nights the mud 
is frightful. Strange sensation to pass 
hour after hour watching in the black- 
ness for the sound of a stirring foe ! 
My wide-open eyes see all sorts of pic- 
tures in the shadows. The heavens are 
marvelous — filled with Chinese dogs 
and bats, butterflies and horses. I think 
of the young shepherds in Attica. 

Our meal in the darkness is very droll ; 
a chunk of meat is passed from dirty 
hand to dirty hand. Last night at 
one o'clock we were all perishing of 
thirst, so we dared to walk down the 
109 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

plain and found a spring and drank. 
The nectar of Jove could not equal 
the flavor or freshness of that water. 

Forgive my letter — head and hand 
are tired — and, well — you couldn't 
imagine my surroundings save the April 
sunshine, the violets, and my love for 
you and mother. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

April 18, 1918. 
Cherie — 

, Your letter of March 21st came this 
morning at six o'clock. I was sound 
asleep in our hole — with three com- 
rades together. For my pillow my daily 
loaf of bread, my feet (shoes on) wrapped 
in my tent cloth. I had been alone 
in the fantastic field beside the mitrail- 
leuse until midnight; one night from 
six until midnight — the next from mid- 
night until six in the morning. These 
April nights are cold — and the mud 
and the rain — and the continuous hell 
110 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

of bombardment — the life is unima- 
ginably hard — each of my fingers is 
a kind of wound. Once in ten days I've 
washed my face. Oh ! I'm dirty. A 
month since I've had my trousers off. 
I'm dirty as a poor pig — and hungry. 
The second day en ligne Fritz blew 
up our three rolling kitchens, so we 
have eaten little things out of tin boxes. 
The Captain comes down the boyau 
now and again to see me. It is so dan- 
gerous to move. A huge shell fell twenty 
feet from him the other day and did 
7iot explode. 

This moment I'm sitting in the trench 
beside the gun, hidden under a camou- 
flage. Three hours' guard each day 
besides the six at night. Life is become 
a masterpiece of difficulties — however, 
this sector is what they call "calm." 
Fritz is just ahead, hidden in his trench. 
He began to sing yesterday afternoon 
(was probably drunk), not in the trench, 
but in a little ruined village behind 
his lines, and at once we sent over a 
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^.V AMERICAN POILU 

dozen or so enormous bombs ; we didn't 
hear any more singing after that. 

In the night, when I'm not thinking 
of wonderful beds and eggs on toast, I 
try to catch the "note" of the situation. 
Its strangeness and my being in it over- 
whehn me. The flying shells make 
a weird music — it varies according to 
the size ; some are so sweet, like candy — 
they whine and trail ; some make me 
think of little, crying, lonely children ; 
some die away over the line like musi- 
cal rhymes of E. A. Poe. They sel- 
dom cease day or night. Then the 
avians come and try to shoot us, and 
Fritz is watching to pop off any head 
that lifts above the mud bank. 

I am happy. I am some one else. My 
simple comrades are tres gentil. I think 
of home — its quiet — its warmth — 
its serenity — You are in Paradise. 

Devotedly, 

' E. 



112 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

April 21, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

This morning I received a beautiful 
pair of socks from you. It was a pleasure 
to see something so new and clean. My 
dirty conditions would make you laugh. 
I feel as though I had been carefully 
varnished from head to foot. My hair 
is as stiff as wires with dust. It is 
frightful, and yet of so little importance. 
I'm alive and happy and clean inside. 

We spent a week in the trenches 
before the enemy, and now are in reserve 
three miles in the rear, in a vast and 
aw^ul mine. We are bombarded con- 
stantly by big shells, but there is nothing 
to fear if we remain inside. Strange 
to emerge from this Stygian blackness 
(a candle makes only a tiny yellow ring) 
and find the sun washing a wide spread 
of April landscape — blue and green 
and white — and stranger still the city 
burning on the horizon and shells ex- 
ploding in all directions. The serenity 
of nature is astounding. It remains — 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

I feel it stronger than ail the hell let 
loose. The roar passes, the sweetness is ! 
We are to stay here, I fancy, three 
or four days longer, and then in the 
night, in whispers, go back to the trenches. 
I'm glad it is spring. \Yinter in the 
trenches must make Death blush. I 
look at my thin comrades, and think- 
ing of their four years of war, I'm dazed 
by their splendor. How have they borne 
\i^ And each one is as sensitive as I 
am. Each one is cold and hungry and 
tired and frightened — just as each one 
is, in the splendor, warm and rosy and 

rested and brave. 

E. 

Au Front. 
April 25, 1918. 

Clwrie — 

In the midst of all this bombardment 
and trenches and filth and pinard and 
comrades, I receive the news that I am 
to go on permission to-night. I can 
hardly believe it, and for all I'm "crazy" 
114 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

to wash up and sit in a chair — that is, 
crazy to go — still I feel vaguely sorry 
to leave. However I'm off to-night with 
Captain Pete. We must walk twenty 
miles to find the train. Do you feel 
how excited I am ? I trust we shan't 
be blown to crumbs before we are out 
of the war zone. This morning Maurice 
(the chap who sleeps beside me) and 
I went down the hill from the mine to 
the little brook and for the first time 
in ten days I washed my teeth (and 
other things), but the shells began to 
whistle near by, so we came home on the 
run. Curious how one's dirty bunch 
of straw and one's loaf of bread (I love 
it) makes "home." 

I shall be in Paris for a few days and 
then go to Dinard chez les S. If I can 
find a hat for you in Paris I shall send 
it to you. But don't be "difficult." I 
shall buy it on the "fly." Perhaps 
I can find a "picture" one for mother. 

If I return from this war I will spend 
the rest of my life giving you a "good 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

time", Cberie, but really I had rather be 
burned to death by liquid fire two times 
than have the Bodies victorious. Death 
were a personal joy in face of defeat. 

Well, Cherie, I must bundle up my 
choses and start for Paris. To-morrow 
my comrades mount en ligne and I shall 
be "larking" it in Paris. Strange — 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Mmj 8, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

As you already know, my permission 
has come and gone like the wind (to 
me it remains only as a very pleasant 
dream — a dream filled with the won- 
derful flowers in F.'s exquisite garden 
at Dinard), and here I am back with 
the boys. The change is violent, but 
your son is a most adaptable man, and 
he slept last night and has eaten to-day 
as though he had never seen a clean 
bed or taken food from a china plate. 
In truth I was glad to get back here. 
116 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Just why I cannot say; it is all that 
is materially unpleasant, and yet, as I 
tell you, I'm happy to be *'on the job." 
The "job" is, for you, unimaginable, but 
you shall hear about it when I come 
home. I do hope Mr. Boche won't, 
at least, shoot my tongue out. 

We left Paris yesterday morning at 
eight o'clock and arrived "somewhere" 
at noon. After tramping six or seven 
miles we learned that our regiment 
had changed its quarters. Fortunately 
we found a wagon to take us to the 
412th. My comrades were delighted to 
see me. I had brought them a drop 
to drink and a good cigar. We all made 
merry. Maurice and Frangois made my 
bed — the sight of my bed would make 
you shudder — but I'm the only thing 
in it that's alive. I slept last night 
beautifully. This morning I trotted 
down to the muddy little brook and 
"washed up", and afterwards sat down 
on a tree trunk and reread the dear 
letters I found waiting for me on my 
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^A^ AMERICAN POILU 



return from Paris. Two letters from 
you — one inclosing samples of a dress. 
I thought their color and quality charm- 
ing. I am happy when I know you are 
delightfully dressed. By-the-way, the 
Captain sent you from Paris (for the 
socks and wedding cake) a quite lovely 
scarf. He selected it himself. We both 
hope it will please you. The Captain 
orders that you wear it every day. A 
good soldier obeys his Captain. 

We are probably on the move to- 
morrow. These are very exciting days 
for the soldier, and all this spring you 
must go bravely and softly, thinking of 
me. Remember always I am content 
with what I have chosen to do. What- 
ever the cost I shall have the best of 
the bargain — whatever the cost — 

I hope your garden is pushing up 
lustily, salad and rose. Oh ! how I should 
enjoy working in a garden ! I dream 
of clipping and planting at C. Farm. 

Devotedly, 
E. 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 



May 11, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

Now and again after la soiipe and 
before it is dark, we play a game of 
throwing pennies at a given point. I 
always win, which enchants my com- 
rades and amuses me. Last night, by 
great good luck, I threw five sous and 
gained 114 sous, which amounts to a 
dollar and a quarter. We finished the 
game lighted by the end of a candle. 

Yesterday we had a great revue. 
The General came and looked us over 
and gave our regiment a decoration for 
its recent good work. It was a hand- 
some sight, for all it lacked the glitter 
of sunshine on our bayonets. Five hun- 
dred men standing like statues in a wide 
crescent in a green field. The music 
began — the trumpets shouted — and 
from the wood on the hill in front of 
us came galloping the General and his 
train of cavaliers. He was gorgeous 
in his decorations. His saddle was black 
119 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

and gold. He rode before us and behind 
us, and then arranged himself and 
his court like a picture of Napoleon, 
while we filed by him and presented arms. 
Our flag — the flag of our division — 
hung in the air like a poem by Lord 
Byron. Captain Pete looked very fine 
on his horse. The Legion d'Honneur 
shone like a rose on his blue coat. Be- 
fore the ceremony began he galloped by 
to my company to say Bon Jour and 
to show me the chic way in which his 
orderly had arranged the tail and mane 
of his horse. As he came toward me 
I had again that sad vision of him dead. 
He looked so thin, so rare — and so 
good — so good — Then the trumpets 
and the General. My arm ached to fall 
off from holding my gun in the same 
place for so long. 

\Miile the decorations were being given 
on the farther end of the field a man in 
our company caught a partridge. It 
was *'side splitting" seeing him trying 
to bag it without disturbing the revue. 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

He killed it on its nest. It was a beauti- 
ful mother bird ; there were ten green 
eggs under her. 

Coming home we marched through 
a lovely forest. The ground was a bed 
of lily-of-the-valley — the air took me 
to Bleak House garden. 

Last night it began to rain. We all 
got rath^ wet. Our roof leaks. We 
await orders to move. You may, for 
a time now, follow me in your daily 
papers. We await orders to go into 
the "fray" (as Shakespeare and Aunt 
J. would say — I'm fond of them both). 

You understand it isn't easy at present 
to write, and perhaps letters will be 
rarer. My heart and soul — my funny 
dreams — are always with you — and E. 

Devotedly, 

E. 

May 18, 1918. 
Cherie — 

You will please take note of the 
change in my address. I am now of 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

the 3d Company. By great good for- 
tune Pete is my Captain. The new 
arrangement came about two days ago. 
Of course I was enchanted to be put 
into his company, but also I was sorry 
to leave my comrades of the 1st Com- 
pany. I had been with them two months 
or more (time goes so fast) and had come 
to love the least — and was beloved 
of them all. My parting was painful ; 
however, here I am in the 3d Company 
and already the bond is established. 
We are young in the 3d Company, most 
of us under twenty-five. We are Bre- 
tons with waving blond hair and blue 
eyes. We are so young it is painful 
to think of our present business. 
I This morning the Captain reviewed 
the Company. We "presented" very 
well. He spoke to each man, asked 
his name and previous occupation. 
When he arrived in front of me he said 
in English, "I know." 

Well, and so you will address me in 
the 3eme Cie. But all letters for me 
123 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



will reach me if you don't forget Secteur 
49. We are always Secteur 49. 

In my last letter I told you we were 
going north, and here we are a long, 
long journey from our last cantonment. 
Two days of marching and thirty hours 
in the train. I have been frightfully 
tired — too tired to remember — but my 
gift of sleep never leaves me. I even 
slept through a bombardment by les 
avians. I was told afterward all the world 
was dehout. Yesterday we all suffered 
from the intense heat. It was hellish. 
We had only ten miles to make, but 
the road was shadowless and the sun 
overhead. There were moments when 
I would have given my soul and yours 
for a drink of water. My shoulders 
were paralyzed by the weight of my 
sacks. Besides our ordinary luggage we 
carried "four days' food" (bread and 
"monkey" are hea\'y). 

As I said, this is a country of inter- 
minable dusty roads zigzagging through 
vast level fields — beautiful fields no 
123 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

doubt to spin by in "Polly", but for 
the trooper, discouraging. However, I 
didn't really look at them, my eyes 
being on the dust just a step ahead of 
my foot. Some of us fell by the nettles 
and some of us were carried away on 
canvas stretchers ; all of us were fatigued 
to the bone. Toward evening we saw 
ahead, like a plumy oasis in a green 
desert, our cantonment. We arrived 
with the twilight. I can't tell you how 
romantic a little village it is ; a strange 
lost garden of trees from the edges of 
which roll, away to the horizon, the 
bare fields. The houses are thatched 
and colored and centuries old. 

We are lodged in a prehistoric sort 
of barn made like a swallow's nest of 
timber and mud. It smells of straw. 
There are no windows, but the roof is 
literally perforated with holes. This 
morning when I opened my eyes I saw 
the mud walls specked with gold disks. 
For a long time I listened to the doves 
and the larks. The latter seemed to 
124 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

be hanging garlands of song on my roof. 
The fields (the fields inside the oasis) 
are brilliant gold — buttercups up to 
the flowery hawthorn hedges. We can 
buy nothing here save milk and eggs 
and butter. Last night I bought twenty 
quarts (for a dollar) of milk for the tired 
boys in my section. We stood around 
while the weird old woman milked the 
beautiful cows. I also bought eighteen 
handsome heads of lettuce (for thirty -five 
cents), to make a camouflage for le singe. 
This letter was begun beside the butter- 
cups, but it is finished chcz Captain Pete. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Shne Cie. dc MitraUlcuses, 
412 Rcgt d'Infaiiterie, Secteur 49. 

May 30, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

I'm thinking of my father to-day 

and your father — and the two little 

flags standing up on their graves. And 

I hope you have put a flower beside the 

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AN AMERICAN POILU 

flags. This morning when I awoke — 
last night a terrible battle in the air 

— I thought of our graves, so far from 
me, and wished it were possible for me 
to climb the hill and find Wistaria Path 
and look at those two little stones — 
and the grass — and the flags. Later 
when we were making a sham attack 
in a divine little wood — its ferns are 
knee high — I was thinking all the time 
of those two little flags and the so-long- 
dead soldiers underneath. Walking back 
through the fields from the divine wood 

— my comrades singing and laughing 
and *' ragging" like holiday children — 
I decided to arrange an extra something 
to eat for my comrades' supper in memory 
of those two far-away flags and the men 
under them. It isn't easy to market here, 
but with the Captain's help, I've found 
white wine and three cans of green peas 
and a pound of butter. Just that makes 
a fete for my section this evening. 

Our weather is glorious ; we eat under 
a great linden tree that drops odd little 
126 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

seeds into our tin dishes ; we sit on 
boxes filled with cartridges — we are 
disgracefully inelegant — but we are so 
friendly and kind and young. I fancy 
our fathers ate in about the same way 
in 1861 ; anyway, they sup with us this 
evening — under the big tree on the 
boxes — and all of us so friendly and 
kind. You too, my dear, will be with 
us — because you are always with me. 
But you must not listen to all of the 
jokes we shall find in the white wine. 
So young we are, but our jokes — well — 
I'm sure our fathers told them or laughed 
at them in 18G1. 

Nothing changes, dear, so you know I am 

Devotedly, 
E. 

fieme Cie. de Mitrailleuses , 
412eme Reg^t d^Infanterie, Sedeur 49. 

June 5, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

Isn't this the anniversary of your 
wedding day? It seems so to me, but 
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^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

perhaps I'm mistaken ; you know I was 
so very young at the time of your nup- 
tials. WTiat a charming bride you must 
have been, and what a good time you 
must have had, so long ago in June. 
Well, my dear, to-day I'm somewhere 
else from where I last wrote you. We 
have traveled many miles from the 
quaint little village hidden in the oasis 
of trees. A day and a half we were 
in the train, that is I was on a truck 
— with two machine guns, on the look- 
out for bombarding aeroplanes. The 
day was an agony of grilling sunshine 
and the night was cold ; however, we 
were fortunate in regard to the bombs. 
A soldier's life is a series of miraculous 
escapes, or else we must believe in 
fatality and know we are immortal 
until our name is called. I have talked 
with so many soldiers who have fought 
since the beginning of the war and not 
a scratch to show for it, and I've heard 
of others who were killed in their first 
attack. Is it all luck or is it fatality, 
128 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

or do the two words mean the same 
thing ? I am lucky to-day — I'm beauti- 
fully alive, and the beauty of this coun- 
tryside is for me — the iridescent canal 
— the iridescent dragon fly — the iri- 
descent forest — the iridescent sky, all 
is to me this fifth of June, 1918. And 
memory is mine too ; I am across the 
Atlantic — I am at home. I am kissing 
you and asking if this isn't the anni- 
versary of your marriage ? 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Seme Cie. de Mitrailleuses, 
412me Reg't d'Infanterie, Secteur 49. 

June 6, 1918. 
Mon cher Bouvard — 

Since last night your affectionate Pecu- 
chet has refused to take this war seri- 
ously. From now on until I am as 
dead as Marley or a taxpayer in M. I 
shall be a broad grin. Everything is 
so unexpected, so droll. For a year 
(I enlisted July 27, 1917) I've tried to 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

be serious, but I give it up. My recent 
letters have told you with what awful 
haste and fatigue our regiment left the 
oasis of the north. It was a divine 
Sunday and very hot ; we marched for 
ten miles (I sweated so the march was 
a swim for me) and we slept that night 
in a lovely orchard under the stars. 
At dawn we were put like cattle into a 
train (I worked like a galley slave help- 
ing to push "things" on to the trucks) 
and rode for twenty-four hours. My 
section was on a truck with two machine 
guns — waiting to defend us against 
les avions. Nothing happened. 

We arrived in a dead city ; everybody 
had flown — fearing invasion by the 
Bodies. We were terribly tired and 
terribly dirty. We marched to our pres- 
ent cantonment, which is only a few 
miles from the foe. We expected the 
first day to go into battle at any moment. 
Nothing happened. Well, last night the 
officers invited me to go fishing. "5on," 
says I, "let us go fishing." We went 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

and, cher Bouvard, what do you think 
I did? I saw? 

The canal was exquisite — a page by 
Rodenbach ; we spread a net, and re- 
treating from it a hundred feet, turned 
and proceeded to advance towards it 
step by step, beating the water with 
long poles. I never saw anything so 
funny, so pastoral. We became so warm 
with the violent exercise that we threw 
our coats to the ground and continued 
to beat the mysterious water. Then 
we lifted the net — fishes — a dozen 
squirming silvery ones ! Did you ever 
hear of anything so quaint ? AVe brought 
home two dozen of them — and we 
laughed like schoolboys. The cannon 
meanwhile were roaring away like mad, 
but for us it might well have been in 
another star. We came here to fight 
for liberty and justice and behold — we 
fish — and laugh ! 

And the countryside is so lovely this 
month of IVIay. This canal flowing so 
gently before me — and the light of 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

this evening sky. The decor is one of 
green-gold and pearl. A dragon fly in 
peacock blue sits on a yellow iris by my 
side. We are mirrored in the canal. 
Birds call from the forest. Does it 
read like a soldier's letter.'* Doubtless 
the war is going on somewhere (I hear 
it in fact) but for me this May evening 
is a picture serene as Helen of Troy 
and colored like Cleopatra's eyes. 

Devotedly, 
Pecuchet. 

Seme Cie. de Mitrailleuses^ 
412e77ie Reg't d'lnfanterie, Secteur 49. 

June 7, 1918. 
Mon clier Bouvard — 

I wrote you last evening of the comedy 
of this life, and directly after posting 
the letter I wondered if I hadn't tempted 
the gods, for before going to bed a 
frightful bombardment began "up north'* 
and we were told we might be ordered 
to face the music at dawn. Sure enough, 
at three o'clock the word came, and in a 
132 



AN AMERICAN POILtJ 

jiffy we were on our feet and rolling 
up our blankets, with the strange thought 
spinning in the chilly air that another 
day might find us sound asleep with 
our ancestors. It was a splendid "tear- 
ing about" for thirty minutes, and then 
the word came that neither Liberty nor 
Justice needed our assistance or blood for 
at least another half day. It was funny 
— and somehow I felt slightly disap- 
pointed. It is so flat to be armed to 
the eye tooth at 3 : 30 a.m. and then 
to find there is nothing to defend or 
kill. 

Well, Pete called for hot coffee, and 
when it appeared we sat down and 
breakfasted and laughed like children. 
The day grew golden at the window, and 
I saw the ancient church on the slope 
was as serene as yesterday. To-morrow ? 
To-morrow? I haven't an idea about to- 
morrow. But I shall be glad when it is 
the fourth of July. If we are going to 
fight before summer we must begin pretty 
soon. A battlefield in hot August must 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

be a horror of liorrors, and the stench 
and the thirst ! How foohsh this war is ! 
I've a new occupation. I'm the tele- 
metreur of our Company. I carry on 
my back a huge apparatus (something 
like an ogre's rolhng pin) into which, 
after arranging it before me on a huge 
three-legged stand, I gaze with one 
eye and discover a house or a tree two 
miles away miraculously near my nose. 
Then, by certain delicate movements 
of which I'm the master, and no small 
amount of arithmetic, I can tell the 
Captain the exact number of yards 
between me and anything in sight, thus 
enabling the gunner to locate the heart 
of the approaching foe. It is interest- 
ing work. 

In place of a gun I carry a revolver — 
like an officer; this pleases me. A 
revolver is so easily managed, I've an 
idea I could pop off the Kaiser long 
before he could lift his gun. In the 
German army each mitrailleur is pro- 
vided with a revolver. Le teUmetreur 
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^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

is always with the Captain — that is 
somewhere near the head of the com- 
pany — and that pleases me also. I 
think of you these June days. 

Devotedly, 
Pccuchet. 

Battlefield — Poste de Secours, 

June 12, 1918. 
Mother — 

Two days now we have been in battle. 
Pete was wounded this afternoon. The 
beautiful Captain is wounded and has 
been carried away. I took him on my 
shoulder from the battlefield a mile. 
We found a stretcher. We were only 
separated by perhaps sixty feet when 
the shell came down and wounded him 
in the leg and shoulder. I am alone — 
I am a frozen tear — not only for Pete's 
wound (not terribly serious) and depart- 
ure, but for the unbelievable sorrow, 
horror, slaughter — I don't know what 
— that I've seen. My escape has been 
a miracle ; we have been shelled for 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

hours — and gassed — and shot at from 
the German mitrailleuses and the devils 
in the air. 

I am writing this — I have force to 
write this — because I am full of brandy. 
I am crying hard inside. It is more 
terrible than any one has written or 
told. The battle is still raging on a 
front of many miles. We are progressing 
foot by foot. I'm in a calm corner for 
a moment, as I left our battle hill to 
help my Captain. It is awful and 
I'm strangled by the affection in me 
for my poor comrades — for all the 
world. It is too awful. To-night — 
to-morrow. 5^ How can any one live in 
this hell? 

Excuse this scribble, it's all one-sided 
I know, but I write to tell you I'm un- 
touched and that the Captain is wounded ; 
curious he was wounded during the first 
time since we attacked that we were 
not within four yards of each other. 
The sun has shone all day. The flowers 
in the field are beyond belief — larkspur 
136 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

— miles of its blue — poppies — clover, 
etc. 

I love you with my heart and soul. 
Good-by for to-day, 

E. 



Seme Cie. Mitrailleuses, 
412me Reg't cVInfanterie, Secteur 57. 

June 19, 1918. 
Dear H. 11. — 

The battle — it recedes — I am able 
to look back at it — I will tell you what 
I see, for I cannot tell what I felt — be- 
cause, well, because I felt every sort 
of a feeling during the three days we 
were in the hell. 

At twilight June 10th, after a short 
march, we embarked in the motor trucks 
and rode all night towards somewhere. 
I have told you how thoroughly ex- 
hausting the motor journeys are ; the 
dust — the lack of room — the smell 
of essence, etc., render the maximum of 
fatigue. It was four o'clock when we 
137 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

disembarked by the side of a road running 
through a dreary, flat landscape. Not 
a village, not a farm in sight ; the roar of 
the distant cannon filling the air. We 
had received pressing orders so that the 
mules and horses were left behind ; thus 
it was necessary for my company to 
push the machine guns and cases of 
cartridges — we did so for five miles. 
Remember, none of us had slept the 
night ; most of us were suffering with 
headaches. 

At six o'clock, in a weird, dismantled 
village, we were told we were to attack 
that morning at eleven o'clock. A half 
hour's repose and we were on the march 
again, passing through a country bright- 
ening to the sun — the day. I helped 
push the material until the pain in my 
ribs made it impossible. It was a long 
march — perhaps twelve miles. The 
scene was very exciting — thousands of 
wagons and horsemen and soldiers con- 
verging from the three corners. In the 
shelter of a high cliff — a kind of quarry 
138 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

— we assembled ; over the brow the 
attack was already in progress. We 
waited our turn to advance, laughing, eat- 
ing, saying ^' Au 'voir'"' and watching the 
stretcher bearers already returning with 
ghastly wounded — a rage of thunder 
was over the brow. 

Noon — ^^ en avanf'' — company formed ; 
we went over the top — not of a trench 
you understand, but of the cliff. This 
was open warfare, guerre de mouvement. 
Of course I didn't know what to expect 
"over the top." A superb and vast 
roll of fields — colored like a painting 

— flowers of every kind and color — blue 
and red and pink and yellow and purple, 
brilliantly gilded by the sun. Miles 
and miles of flowers. To right and left 
as far as I could see, thin rows of sol- 
diers marching. The Adjutant leading, 
I coming directly after, and behind me at 
a little distance our section — the Captain 
was to the right with the Commandant. 

Huge shells were falling around us — 
exploding with sickening shrieks. We 
139 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

heard them whistHng as they approached 

— we threw ourselves flat to the ground 

— here and there torn holes in the 
ground — a yard away a bloody spot, 
a gun. Sometimes we lay in the flowers 
for half an hour, eating the seeds of the 
tall wheat. 

^' En avant.'' We were up — almost 
every soldier had gathered a bouquet. 
Always the howling shells, always the 
flowery fields more and more golden 
under the declining sun. It was superb 

— like the beginning of a symphony by 
Beethoven. We made eight miles or 
so like this, not one of the Seme Cie. 
receiving a wound. At seven o'clock 
we were under the hill — the Boches 
had retreated to the other side. Seven 
o'clock ? It must have been later — it 
was growing dusk. Boche wounded were 
lying about. How I hate their compact 
little heads ! 

The third section — my section — of 
the mitrailleuses was ordered to the left 

— a mile perhaps — and the Captain 

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AN AMERICAN POILU 

ordered me to go with them (I was 
detached from the section as Uaison), 
make a plan of the path and the em- 
placement of the gun, and bring it back 
to him. Going down the valley I talked 
with the friends from other companies 
that I met — I said a word to the gray 
wounded — I glanced at the dead. We 
crossed an open space and sat down on 
the slopes of the hill. A terrific bom- 
bardment was starting, and a rain of 
bullets from an indirect "tir" of a ma- 
chine gun was falling on the open road. 
A company of men entered it at the 
same time ; they began to run — to fall — 
to cry — to bleed. Notice, by a mere 
chance — a minute — we came tlirough. 
The shells were coming down like mad. 
Suddenly five soldiers stumbled down 
the hill among us — five poor men in 
agony with the gas ; they were awful to 
contemplate. 

The Adjutant gave me the drawing 
of the path and told me to take my 
chance and return to the Captain. The 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

bullets had stopped coming. I flew across 
the open space. I ran like fire along 
the valley. That mile sprint will remain 
with me forever. Most of the shells 
had fallen there — the sights were too 
grotesque — the mutilated bodies, Ah ! 
The soldiers were crowded against the 
slope — their faces glittering. The dead 
were serene as old marbles — one young 
dead I shall always see. He was so 
beautiful — his rifle under his long hand. 
Coming down the valley I had talked 
with a charming fellow whom I've known 
since last autumn. Hearing my name 
called (when returning, I was the only 
person moving) I looked up and there 
was my friend on his back, waving two 
hideous stumps — both legs torn away 
within the half hour. Ofiicers hidden 
under the hill cried out to me to run 
faster. I ran as fast as I could — I 
reached tHe Captain and the rest of 
the Company. He was glad to see 
me — the shells always falling — but we 
were sheltered a little by the hill. 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

It grew dark — we spread our blanket 
and went to sleep — I was empty — 
We were to attack to the right at dawn. 
A charming lieutenant slept on my 
*' other side." He spoke a few English 
words to me before sleeping ; at noon the 
next day his head was cut off by a 
piece of shell. At dawn the Company 
was on the move to the right — every 
way the wounded were coming in, towards 
the Poste de Secours. Poor mortals, 
they were tragic — tragic — tragic — and 
divine — the horror of it — the w^hiteness 

— the love of it. I saw one wounded 
man carrying another wounded comrade 
on his shoulder, walking slowly — slowly 

— utterly regardless of the ever falling 
shells. I saw Fritz red with his detested 
blood being borne on a stretcher by four 
Frenchmen. The Captain's orderly had 
a bottle of cognac — we drank of it. 
There was a road to cross — in full view 
of the enemy — we crossed it in little 
groups on the fly. Remember, each 
of us had all his "stuff" on his back, 

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AN AMERICAN POILU 

something like thirty pounds ; the fatigue 
is outrageous — but death never found 
a soldier tired — la vie est si forte, mon 
Dieu. 

Well, the foe, seeing us dashing across 
the road, knew we would pass through 
the village near by (which we did) and 
he put down a curtain of fire — an un- 
believable rage of shells — to right — 
to left — behind — before. They always 
fell away from me — we ran — we 
stopped — we crept — we lay flat 
in the gutters. That village, H. H., is 
indescribable. It had been recently oc- 
cupied ; it was a beautiful village — 
lovely old houses — gardens — fountains, 
etc. It was a hell of the wildest variety, 
mad ! The flowery plants danced on 
the tumbling window sills. The air was 
gray with powder and smoke, and we 
were running like crazy children through 
the crazy streets — a nightmare — we 
lost the turning. The Captain was as 
calm as an operatic soldier — his map 
in his hand — I was at his heel — trying 
144 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



to decide to throw away at least half 
the stuff on my shoulders. I remember 
I had a whimsical desire to walk into 
a house — I saw such charming bric-a- 
brac waiting to be smashed. The air 
was one long howl, bang, bang, bang. 
For a little time we wore our gas masks 

— and the insanity was complete. I 
laughed as I ran. The roofs fell in — 
the great trees whisked to the paving — 
the garden walls jumped and toppled — 
the soldiers cried out. Oh, our passing 
through that village on June 12th was 
a scream of everything outlandish that 
you can think of. 

Then we sneaked along by a hedge — 
before us the fields — the sun — the 
flowers. The enemy saw us leaving the 
village just as he had seen us entering 

— another curtain of fire — we gained 
a little shelter and sat down. I was 
soon very sleepy and hungry. The shells 
pounded down on every side. I heard 
shrieks I shall always hear. We waited 
*' there" for two hours, then we were 

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AN AMERICAN POILU 

ordered to return a hundred or so yards 
and take a position on the hill. Cau- 
tiously we crept back, trying to hide our- 
selves in the hollows and the hedge — 
but the foe saw us and the shells began 
to arrive — I lost two dear comrades 
there. The dead sitting in the sun that 
we passed were frightful — some with the 
face completely blown away. We ran 
up the hill through a graveyard, and 
for the next hour I can't see why we 
were not all destroyed. Bang, bang, and 
then we were up and running to another 
place — always the shells fell behind me. 
Up to this time I had been with the 
Captain — ahead. He was obliged to. 
leave us for a quarter of an hour to get 
orders from the Major. During his ab- 
sence the poor men became dizzy — they 
couldn't stay still. The shells doubled 
in violence. I saw Pete coming back, 
walking quite calmly and looking for 
us where he had left us. I called out 
"Pierre." He heard me, he started 
towards me — we were most of us crouch- 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

ing in a waving wheat field — but some 
of the men had placed themselves in an 
old trench. Pete stopped to order them 
to advance — a huge shell arrived — 
exploded — and the beautiful Captain 
was wounded. 

They called to me — I saw him so 
white — and his trouser leg already red 
with blood. For a moment I couldn't 
believe he was touched — I don't know 
why it seemed so impossible. Leaning 
on my shoulder, we staggered across the 
field, regardless now of shell or bullet. 
We managed to walk half a mile — found 
a stretcher, and Pete was carried away 
to the Poste de Secours — I followed. 
The doctor cut away his clothes — his 
shoe was full of blood — a small hole 
in the side of his leg — a bandage — a 
good-by — and he was put into an Ameri- 
can ambulance — and rode away. I 
say nothing of the victims (Boches and 
French) rambling and crying and wait- 
ing and dying around the Poste de Se- 
cours — it was a shambles. 
147 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

The afternoon sun was over every- 
thing — gold — gold — gold — and I was 
alone — as I can never be alone again — 
in full battle — my unfailing friend gone 
from me. Well, I sat down and wrote 
a word to Mother. I had to. Later 
I found my corporal and passed the 
awful night. At dawn we were relieved, 
departing under an intense bombard- 
ment — some of us were wounded by 
our own shells — we came away pinched 
as ghosts and singing vaguely. Our 
regiment had done magnificent work. 
I have only tried to tell you little details 
which I trust the censors will not blot 
out. That day at noon we reached our 
cantonment. I found a vacant corner, 
and covering my dirty face with my dirty 
handkerchief wept for all the sorry world. 

For three nights and nearly as many 
days I had been steady as iron — obey- 
ing instantly every order — always ahead. 
Indeed my sangfroid was admired by 
both officers and soldiers, and I have 
been proposed for the Croix de Guerre. 
148 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

If I receive it, I hope you will be proud 

— and offer a bottle of champagne a la 
Frangais to some one. My section is 
planning a fete with garlands over the 
table the day I'm decorated. Strange 
I should be a soldier wearing a war 
medal. 

Ah, they were outrageous hours there 
in the sunshine, the flowers (fields of 
larkspur) and the slaughter. I've said 
nothing about the bullets and the bombs 
from the planes — or the tanks. When 
I return I will tell you about it all. 

To-morrow, June 20th, there is to be 
a service in the church for our dead — 
mort sur le Champ d'llonneur. Poor, 
poor dead ! I went with them — I loved 
them — I took their chances — I left 
them there (I came away untouched) 

— the service — the glory to them — 
and the grave on the field of honor. 

My letter is too long to reread. I 

know it is filled with errors. Forgive 

them — it will give you an idea at least 

of my first battle — my first attack — 

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AN AMERICAN POILU 

only an idea — I'm not in writing mood. 
If I could communicate with exactitude 
the vibrations of those days (coming so 
late in my life) their madness — their 
pitiless beauty — their horrible horror 
— their annihilation of me as a per- 
sonality and their something else for 
which I have no words, etc., you would 
weep as I did after they were over and 
I was safe. 

Here I've started another sheet and 
my story is finished. No word as yet 
from the Captain. He will come back 
as soon as he can — at least he said 
so when he left me. 

This is a vastly lonely and difficult 
time for me, H. H. I hope you are writ- 
ing me often — I need that comfort. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

June 29, 1918. 
My dear Mother — 

My recent letters have been doleful 
reading I'm sure and doubtlessly have 
150 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

made you and E. feel quite miserable. 
But, my dear mother, it was a doleful 
letter or no letter at all. You under- 
stand that my comrades have never 
suspected my cafard. I'm always ready 
to smile, I've been apparently contented, 
but the instant I began to write — to 
think of you and home — the sadness 
of my June overwhelmed me and I 
relaxed to my fatigue. That has passed. 
It somehow fades to film. I'm ready 
to go into another battle. 

Poor Pete is in the hospital with 
his cruel wounds. The operations have 
been successful and it is only a matter 
of a few weeks before he will be back 
again. He has been so good to me — 
and we started out together — we en- 
countered the fire together. I wish I 
had been wounded by the same shell 
that disabled him ; I would like to share 
his sufferings. Poor Pete, he was so 
superb on the battlefield, and so dry 
and white with his clothes red with 
blood when I helped him away. It was 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

just after he left in the ambulance that 
I wrote to you — at the Poste de Secours. 
I wonder what I could have written 
you. I was at the climax of all my 
sensations and I sat down quietly and 
wrote a letter. I should like to read 
that piece of paper. 

Well, yesterday it was officially an- 
nounced before the company that I 
was to be decorated by the regiment with 
the Croix de Guerre. My citation (you 
shall have it later) was read, and I 
blushed to be so strangely compli- 
mented. 

That summer when at C. we read of 
the explosion of war in Europe, who 
could have imagined that your son would 
be awarded a medal for his bravery 
in one of the battles? If I come home 
I shall appear in a bright blue uniform 
and wearing a decoration. Will you 
recognize me ? 

What a pity you cannot see the cere- 
mony of decorating! What a pity the 
Captain will not see it either; that 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

touches something under the eyehds. 
I shall be quite alone when the Colonel 
pins it to my coat. My comrades are 
enchanted with my citation ; they plan 
a fete of wine and flowers for the repast 
following the ceremony. 

The landscape this evening is Claude 
Lorraine — that is to say, inundated 
by a golden haze. I am sitting in a 
field, but I shan't remain here long ; every 
sort of insect is trying to tickle or bite me. 

Devotedly, 
E, 

Juhj 9, 1918. 
Dear AI other — 

For the last three days we've been 
surrounded by American soldiers (our 
blue streets changed in a short summer 
night to kliaki color) ; they are simply 
all over the place — sitting against the 
houses, sleeping under the hedges, walk- 
ing up and down and across the roads. 
When the cafe opens they rush in and 
get "lit up" and dance and sing and 
153 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

make improper proposals to the "doll" 
who brings them their sarsaparilla. They 
talk American, which is a hair-curling 
language vaguely reminiscent of Eng- 
lish. They make a noise they call French. 
They are taller and thinner than was 
ever our Abraham Lincoln. They spend 
money as Hetty Green didn't. I fancy 
they are all more or less nostalgic. They 
cannot understand a man being in the 
French army for five cents a day when 
he might be in the American receiving 
one dollar a day. They are charming 
and mysterious and unaccountable. 
They are the new world. They wear 
the uniform badly, but their teeth are a 
brilliant lesson of beauty and health 
to the poilu. I was invited last night 
to eat with them — a corporal I had 
run across two weeks ago in another 
village being my host. (He has an 
aunt in Brockton !) 

I was very interested to be an Ameri- 
can soldier for the time of a meal — to 
watch how Uncle Sam does it. (I should 
154 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

have been served an infinitely better 
supper had I remained chez moi.) After 
the beans had disappeared and the cup 
of coffee also, I invited the corporal to 
the cafe for a drink. We sat in a quiet 
corner and he told me of his stepmother's 
quick temper. The room filled (the 
quiet corner vanished) and cup by cup 
the songs grew louder. Do you know 
"Go Easy, Mabel"? It must be a 
lovely song, because they sang it over and 
over and over. I've always read it is only 
the beautiful that can survive repetition. 
It was late when the "doll" tried to 
say "Good night" in American and we 
zigzagged forth into the dreaminess of 
summer and stars and darkness. The 
conversation whirled around the "doll" 
— suddenly she had become the symbol 
of all that is desirable. (Poor thing, I 
pass her every day and can plainly see 
she hasn't washed her neck for a long 
time.) But last night I'm sure "Our 
Boys" dreamed of her with a neck whiter 
than Helen of Troy's ! Poor chaps, they 
155 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

are just back from the trenches and the 

Atlantic is wide. 

E. 

July 13, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

Just a word which may be of no im- 
portance but — how can one tell ? We 
are expecting to go into battle any hour 
now, and if anything tiresome should 
hit me on the head and I should in 
consequence go wandering off to pastures 
new behind the sun — beyond the moon 
— there is something I want you to do 
for me. Failing myself to return to M., 
my Croix de Guerre would be sent to 
you. I'm profoundly touched and proud 
of my Croix de Guerre. It is the climax 
of my life. It is more than a war deco- 
ration ; it stands for me as the symbol 
of all that is superbly unexpected. Do 
you understand me ? Well, sweet 
mother, I want H. to keep my Croix 
de Guerre with him for a year. After 
that it is j^ours. This is only a word 
156 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

and may be, as I said, of no importance. 
Surely we shall be together again. I shall 
carry your courage with me into battle. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

July 18, 1918. 
Mother — 

We are in a lovely summer forest. 
We are awaiting the word to take our 
places in the great battle. I am happy 
— happy to go forward to help — to 
die — or to return to you and my sister 
and my brother and 11. Whatever hap- 
pens to me I shall have you in my heart, 
as I know I shall rest in yours. It is 
good to be a soldier. 

Forever — mother — sister — 

E. 

July 24, 1918. 
In Hospital. 
Dear Mother — 

I was wounded the 21st of this month. 
We attacked at dawn and before eight 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

o'clock I was shot in both legs — just 
below the knees — the ball remaining 
in the right leg. The following twenty- 
four hours were very painful — very 
painful. On July 22nd, at one o'clock, 
in a hospital near the front, I was oper- 
ated upon and the bullet extracted. 
Yesterday the first dressing was made — 
the pain was frightful — another dress- 
ing this afternoon. To-morrow I'm car- 
ried away on a stretcher to a hospital 

in the interior. 

E. 

Hopital Complevientaire 37, 
Salle 2, Laval, Mayenne. 

July 29, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

The last letter I wrote you (it seems 
a lifetime ago) was a miserable attempt 
to meet the situation — that is, we 
were marching (how tired I was and 
my ten toes were in a state of decay ; 
I'm not joking — the sight and smell 
of my feet appalled me) towards battle. 
158 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

It was my hist chance to write, and w^hat 
can one say at so uncertain a moment? 
I've the traditional desire (it may be 
stupid) to say good-by before I die, but 
it's all a matter of chance on the battle- 
field, and if one is lucky then his good-by 
has only caused his far-away mother 
to be unhappy for no reason at all — 
which is obviously stupid. 

I sent you a broken-winged little adieu 
July 19. July 21st, at dawn, we went 
into the hell (to get to our position we 
were obliged to walk through a cesspool 
of American corpses — horrible !) and two 
hours later I came out of it — the passage 
hole of a bullet in my left leg and the 
bullet itself nicely and painfully lodged 
in my right leg — just below the knee 
(happily bone, cord, nerve not touched). 

I was dripping blood from my waist 
to my shoes — only one wound had 
been bandaged on the battlefield. The 
shells were falling like rain and the air 
a twang of bullets from the German ma- 
chine guns (tanks) but I limped through 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

it all for a mile to the first dressing sta- 
tion. I say nothing of the dead and 
dying encountered at every step. The 
frantic wheat seemed to be crying "Save 
me ! Save me !" 

I limped along. At the Poste de 
Secours (unimaginable confusion of 
wounded) the doctor cut away my trou- 
sers and dressed my wounds. I saw 
that the stretcher bearers were snowed 
under, and as I could limp, I limped 
on — and before I was put on a stretcher 
(my leg purple and the size of three) I 
had limped ten miles. An American 
ambulance carried me to a railroad sta- 
tion, and after a long, long dreary wait 
in the hot sun we (a thousand wounded) 
were huddled into the train. We rode 
all night. I do not wish to take that 
journey again — nothing to eat — to 
drink — dirt and blood — crowded com- 
partment — everybody wounded — Mon 
Dieu. 

The morning brought us to Beauvais 
— plenty of kind help, plenty of stretch- 
160 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

ers — the hospital. Some one undressed 
me (I write all this because I know the 
detail interests you), washed me, and the 
doctor took an X-ray of my legs. An 
hour later I was dead to all the world — 
beautifully dead — on the high operating 
table. Towards dusk, I came to — a 
soft bed — comfortable — my leg bound 
solidly into a long zinc "gutter." Lack- 
ing a few days I had been a soldier for 
one year — and now was a hlesse. The 
fever began to mount and the leg to 
scream. I did the best I could, but I 
had to cry. The kind nurse reminded 
me that a brave soldier mustn't dis- 
honor himself by tears. I said I was 
tired and had a strong desire to throw 
something at her head. However, I 
did nothing so energetic — but cried as 
long as it was a pleasure to do so. Pain 
is the only real thing in life. To be 
wounded is nothing — to die less — but 
to have a wound dressed each day even 
by the gentlest hands in the world is 
too awful for words. After my first dress- 
161 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

ings I was an icy rag for three hours. 
But already I've borne the dressing 
each day for a week and so I know I shall 
stand it until the leg heals. Hasn't 
it all been a sacrifice ? I accept. Need- 
less to say when I see les grandes blesses, 
I smile at my leg in the zinc gutter ; 
how do they live — the terribly wounded ? 
Well, I remained three days at Beauvais 
and then journeyed in the hospital train 
(there were many Americans also — 
they attacked with us) all night to 
Laval. I was glad to come here, as 
there is nothing to fear from les avians. 
Fritz has a way, as you read in the 
papers, of bombarding hospitals near 
the front. What a pity I could not 
have been sent to Dinard where Pete 
is mending ! But a simple soldier must 
follow orders and I was ordered to Laval. 
It's not bad here — only it's very poor, 
and we lack all comforts — except that 
greatest comfort — kindness ; everybody 
is beautifully kind, and from my bed 
I can see the sunshine in the garden. 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 



No letters as yet ; it will be a fete when 
some arrive. 

I feel so intensely your eagerness to 
help me — smooth the sheets — wash 
my hands, etc. (you understand that 
I can hardly move an inch), that it 
almost seems as though you actually 
did — by some mystery — so that hours 
are less long — and I sleep better at 

night. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

July 29, 1918. 
In Hospital. 
Cherie — 

There's a beautiful young woman in 
this hospital who is an angel to your 
poilu. The first time I was taken into 
the salle de pansement to have my wound 
dressed she was there. When I told 
her I was a volontaire she complimented 
me, and proceeded to make my dressing 
with all the gentleness in the world. 
I suffered, but no one could have worked 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

more tenderly than did the beautiful 
young woman. Now when I'm taken 
into the salle de pansement and she is 
not there, I begin to sweat before my 
bandages have been touched. This 
morning she came into the ward, bring- 
ing me plums and two eggs and a pot 
of wine-colored jelly. She is a beautiful 
young woman. I am told she has lost 
two brothers in the war, her husband 
has been wounded, and her mother only 
lately escaped from the invaded part 
of France. 

The fellow in bed beside me is a big 
chap — a gunner — wounded the 21st 
of July in the ankle. 

Last night I slept very well because 
I tried an entirely new position. / slept 
on my wounded leg! Yes, with a great 
effort I turned the zinc box completely 
over on its side and threw my left leg 
over the box; then, arranging my stom- 
ach and chest, I fell asleep. I can't 
guess what the position did to the 
wound. It may have split it wide open, 
164 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

but anyway I slept. Cherie, I hope 
you will never have to sleep with your 
leg strapped into a zinc "gutter." 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Hopital Complementaire 37, 
Salle 2, Laval, Mayenne. 

July 29, 1918. 
Cherie — 

Yesterday a beautiful happening — 
but you would have to be a poor hlesse 
in a poor military hospital to feel all 
its beauty. I arrived here three days 
ago — without even a handkerchief — 
without even a pair of trousers, and 
yesterday morning before eight o'clock 
the door of the long ward opened and in 
a haze I saw Captain Pierre coming 
towards me, followed by a man carry- 
ing a large straw case. My Captain, 
who was wounded in a hospital at 
Dinard, was actually standing by my 
bed — it was too beautiful to be real. 

But it was Pete — a little pale — a 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

little bending under his wounded shoulder. 
He had received a letter — a word — 
from me the day before, and regardless 
of doctors, wounds and a threatened 
operation, he had traveled all day — slept 
on a miserable sofa all night (the only 
place he could find in Laval) — and 
was come to see me early in the morn- 
ing. He brought me everything I need 
— and candy and cigarettes and ham 
and toilet paper. And he told me he 
would send a cable to H. and already 
he had written to Paris to hear if it 
will be possible for me to be transferred 
to his hospital at Dinard. And, Cherie, 
when you are wounded — in bed — a 
leg strapped into a gutter — and very 
tired — a visit of this kind is a beautiful 
happening. I shall never forget it. He 
told me about his wounds ; the one in 
his leg is already nearly healed (he was 
wounded June 12th, you knpw) but 
the shoulder wound doesn't heal and 
another operation is necessary. If you 
feel like it write him a letter — it would 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

please him very much — and we know 
the days are terribly long in a hospital. 
Mme. S. and N. have been angels to 
him. 

How beautiful it must be at their 
villa this midsummer — flowers all over 
the place and the whole reflected in the 
sea ! But for all the summer — the 
beauty — no one in France is gay — far 
from it ; the weight of the multitude 
of sufferers is in the air. The recent 
attacks of Foch have filled the hospitals 
to overflowing. But what a splendid 
check for the Bodies ! July 21st was 
for me a great orgy of pleasure ; I 
thought it of course my last day and I 
insisted on enjoying it. The amount 
of death flying around was fantastic, 
but I didn't have a moment's hint of 
fear. I forgot everything in the world 
but my desire to advance, and we did 
advance regardless of shell and bullet. 
I was standing when I was wounded, 
and for a moment thought I had merely 
been hit by a flat stone. 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

Your spirit is around my bed all the 

time. I feel it. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Hopital Complementaire 37, 
Salle 2, Laval, Mayenne. 

August 7, 1918. 

Your night before the Fourth letter 
arrived to-day, Cherie. 

You wonder what I am doing. I 
remember my night before the Fourth. 
I was drinking too much white wine 
with a group of American soldiers. We 
were in a weird old cottage on the out- 
skirts of the town in which I was can- 
tonned. The cafes were closed — it was 
late, but somehow we had discovered 
this miserable sort of kitchen, and there 
we sat and asked each other, "Where 
do you come from in America?" I 
remember we were all delightfully "lit 
up" and sang and flirted with the horrible 
old bone and rag who provided us with 
the brew that cheers. 
168 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Well, naturally, I was very tired the 
morning after — the morning of the glori- 
ous Fourth — and, as there were no 
exercises for our company, I was aston- 
ished at five o'clock to hear all my com- 
rades getting up and calling to me to 
do the same. It was unheard of in 
our section. I got up ignorant and 
sleepy and amazed. I stepped out to 
the table where our meals are served 
(under a charming tumble-down shelter) 
and, behold, a Fourth of July fete 
arranged in my honor by my blessed 
little comrades. A fete of flowers — 
a gorgeous bouquet in a broken pot on 
the table (two fellows had left the straw 
before daybreak and pillaged a garden) 
and on the old rear wall — a wall golden 
with age and early light — a huge fan 
of bluets, daisies and poppies. It was 
patriotic and handsome. " Vive VAme- 
riquef' and we drank our morning coffee. 

Do you feel how charming it was of 
my poilus to "fix" that up for me? 

That evening was our fete — wine 
169 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

and song and laughter in the brown barn 
that grew to me, before the dinner was 
over, to seem Hke a magical boat of 
romance, hallucinated and detached, 
floating away in the exquisite summer 
night. Already, how long ago that merry 
evening; everything recedes so rapidly. 
Some of those singing chaps are dead ; 
I remember their faces — their open 
mouths. Most of the others, like me, 
are wounded. 

Your letters are still too old-fashioned, 
as I might say, to seem contemporary 
and real. I want the next '* batch." 

E. 

August 17, 1918. 
Hopital 37, Laval, Mayenne. 

Beloved Mother — 

Lieutenant Hunault (he now com- 
mands the Seme Compagnie and is, by 
the way, a great friend of mine) has 
forwarded my second citation. You will 
remember my first was from the Regi- 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

ment ; this one comes from the Division. 
Well, I am very proud and I hope you, 
to celebrate (it was life or death you 
know), will explode another bottle of 
ginger ale. But first read the citation. 
(It means another star on my Croix 
de Guerre.) 

H — , E — , Citoyen americain engage 
dans Varmee frangaise. Agent de trans- 
mission entre son Cd. de Cie. et les sec- 
tions avancees, a accompli remarquablement 
sa mission malgre des feux extremement 
violents de mitrailleuses, a donne un bel 
exemple de sangfroid et de courage. 
Grievement blesse le 21 juillet, 1918. 
Citation a Vordre de la Division 
No. 366 du 5 aout 1918 

(Signe) Bremont. 

Do you know what time it is? Six 
o'clock in the morning. The ward is 
sound asleep, excepting Number 42. The 
windows are all tightly closed, of course, 
it being a French hospital, and the 
air is putrid, but, through the window, 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

I can smell the dew on the garden. The 
lower leaves of the young horse-chestnut 
tree are brilliant gold. Apollo has one 
leg out of bed. Five hours later he 
will stick his yellow head into your 
windows and Norkie will begin to chirp, 
chirp. At seven o'clock Grandmere will 
come in and twenty heads (some ban- 
daged like badly wrapped mummies — 
an eye, a nose, "^n panne") will pop 
up from twenty cots and cry ''^ Bon 
Jour, Grandmere.''' Then the blesse near- 
est the window will reach out with a 
crutch and open the casement, and gold, 
dew, leaves, garden, morn, fragrance 
will rush in and chase the sleep out of 
the ward. 

Coffee comes in a huge green tin jug 
(not very clean, I fancy). Behold an- 
other day inaugurated ! 

Devotedly, 
E. 



172 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

August 17, 1918. 
Hopital 37, Laval, Mayenne. 
Cherie — 

I was surprised that the vaguemestre 
brought me no letters from you to-day. 
Just why I was so certain to receive 
a letter from you to-day I don't know, 
but on coming to this morning I felt 
in my "bones" I should hear from you 
either at nine o'clock or at four. The 
vaguemestre came in at nine and four 
bringing his bag of letters ; the names 
were cried out — but mine was not 
mentioned. So much for my "bones"! 
I consoled myself (I wasn't at all sad) 
by sticking my nose deeper into that 
most charming of all books "Le Crime 
de Sylvestre Bonnard", and therein I 
read, ''Chacun fait a sa maniere le reve 
de sa vie'\ and, '' Rien nexiste que ce 
qu'on imagine'', and the afternoon 
dwindled as summer afternoons do, and 
supper came in and was eaten. And now 
I will go for a walk around the ward. 
173 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

The crutches are at hand — I mount 
them — and stamp — scuff — stamp — 
scuff — I go into the center of the big 
room. The stamp is the crutch, the 
scuff is my one sHppered foot. The 
comrades are watching me from their 
pillows. It is so miserably dull here. 
The light is failing. I should like to 
do something to amuse everybody, to 
start a laugh. Without saying a word, 
I let both crutches bang to the floor 
and by the grace of God and considerable 
will and pain, I continued to walk as 
though I had suddenly been cured by 
a miracle. A howl of laughter rings 
from the pillows. I have succeeded in 
making them laugh and also assured 
myself that I shall in time be as strong 
on my legs as I was before Fritz shot 
me. I say walked, but it was more 
of a rabbit hop than a walk; but I 
held my head in the air as though 
going down the Rue de la Paix — and 
my point was gained — the fellows 
laughed. 

174 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Will the vaguemestre bring your letter 
to-morrow ? Yes, I feel it in my "bones." 

E. 

August 21, 1918. 
Hopital 54, Dinard, Ille et Vilaine. 

Cherie — 

A month ago to-day Fritz sent his 
bullet into my leg ; a month ago to-day 
you wrote a beautiful letter to Pete. 
(It arrived this morning and I have 
explained for him the difference between 
your y's and f's.) Strange to think 
how differently you and I were occupied 
on July 21st. Well, I must tell you 
how I got here. As you know, Pete re- 
ceived a permit from Paris, and later (last 
Sunday) the doctor in Laval received 
an order allowing me to be sent to 
Dinard. I made the trip alone, with 
a pair of brilliantly varnished yellow 
crutches and a pea-green chintz bag 
on my arm. Other ways I was a droll 
figure. My shoes were new and nigger- 
175 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

ish (light tan), my trousers were stiff 
cotton khaki, my coat was my blue 
uniform coat, only in cleansing away 
the stain of battle it had become a 
small baby's ulster — I wore a little 
blue hat on my head — three days' 
beard and the Croix de Guerre (its 
first appearance). 

I had the devil's own time getting 
in and out of the trains (the crutches 
are so stiff), which I was forced to do 
often, as nothing goes directly from 
Laval to Dinard (except thoughts). I 
made three changes. However, men and 
women of all sorts and conditions called 
out like angelic conductors, "Make place 
for the wounded poilu!" and helped 
me and my crutches in and out. Every- 
body wanted to carry my chintz bag, 
but I held to it like any other old lady. 
Whenever I saw my shoes, I was fright- 
ened. The leg ached somewhat and 
children in the train walked on it, but 
I was so glad to be on my way to Dinard 
that I merely smiled to myself and the 
176 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



children. A nun jumped over it when 
she left the coach at Dinan. It barred 
the passage. Afterward a huge fishwife 
with a big basket of chickens got in and 
nearly broke "it" in two by resting her 
basket on it. All this began at Laval 
(one o'clock) and ended after dark (nine- 
thirty) at Dinard. The afternoon was 
lovely and I saw the night come over 
the summer fields. I was content and 
happy. 

Pete the unfailing (it was his first 
day out after the second operation) was 
at the station to meet me, and also N. 
dressed for a ball. She insisted that 
on my way to the hospital I stop for a 
moment at the Villa, only for a moment 
to say good-evening to F. She drove 
away in her carriage and Pete and I 
followed in ours. The door burst open 
and F., so beautifully dressed, was hold- 
ing out her hands to welcome me. The 
light behind her seemed unnaturally 
brilliant — and I went in — crutches, 
green bag and all. The house looked 
177 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

like an apartment in fairyland — dancers 
and flowers and light. We went to the 
glittering dining room (so gorgeous after 
Salle L) and drank cold champagne. 
The garden, the sea outside, were a fete 
of moonbeams. It was to me enchant- 
ing, but I was trembling between my 
two crutches. 

At the hospital Pete had arranged 
everything for me. It is paradise here 
and we are as happy as two poets. 
By great good fortune, I am in his 
large chamber (only for officers) in a 
beautiful white bed (forbidden to move 
for two weeks) and by my side a win- 
dow — a window looking on to the 
sea, and the tides moving in and out, 
and the moon coming up, and the bathers 
in rose and blue and lilac, and the 
esplanade like a walking garden of hats 
and parasols. It is too beautiful to be true 
and I am the luckiest blesse in Europe. 

Pete's wound is as large as your 
hand and still causing him pain, but he 
is so happy I'm here. My wound is 
178 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

as large as your other hand and my heel 
is in a bandage, but I am as happy as 
Pete. Each morning we are ordered 
to expose our wounds (they are really 
horrid) to Apollo's golden eye. We do 
so and drink white port. When the 
sun is gone from our window the Head 
Nurse comes in and wraps us up in 
oceans of cotton wool and we remain 
quiet for the rest of the day. N. and 
F. and C. come in and leave us like two 
old veterans in a fruit and flower shop. 
To-night at my dinner hour, F.'s Jeanne 
appeared, bringing a marvelous fish 
marvelously cooked in herbs and butter. 
We have wine and jam and cheese in 
our wardrobe. The hospital food is very 
good. But the window ! A poem of 
sea and sky. I look up from my paper — 
the moon is over the villa and the waves 
are coming in like rollicking silver kit- 
tens. Cherie, I'm tired or I would not 
send you these empty pages. 

Forever, 
E, 
179 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

September 2, 1918. 
Hospital, Dinard. 
Cherie — 

The air to-day is crystal. As I look 
out from my pillows across the empty 
beach to the white hotel and the villas 
and the green gardens and trees and 
pale sky and few clouds, I seem to be 
looking at a miraculous landscape pre- 
served under glass. It is so still — so 
clear — so impersonal. September is the 
secret, I fancy. The light in her eyes 
is other than that of August's. I think 
September originally hailed from Doric 
countries — there's a sense of Greek 
marbles in her luminosity — something 
of the arms of Venus and morn-dew 
on the laurel and myrtle. September 
is a serene arch through which Summer 
passes, saying good-by. The air is 
hushed to catch the word — even the 
sea is still. 

However, all this is not what I was 
going to say. Let me tell you some- 
180 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

thing that will make you feel uncom- 
fortable (for a second, because it's all 
over now as you read). The Head 
Nurse began this morning to "pull my 
leg" under the conviction that by doing 
so daily, she will help me to regain that 
extreme suppleness (in my wounded limb) 
so greatly admired once by my dancing 
partners. As you very well know, my 
leg has been pulled many times, but, 
God knows, I was never so conscious 
of the act as I was this morning. It is 
terrible and the nurse is a heartless minx. 
Slowly she bends it back, slowly she 
straightens it out while I grind my teeth 
and sweat, Pete, sitting with his wound 
in the morning sunshine, looked as though 
he wanted to stick a long knife into the 
nurse's back as she proceeded to torture 
me. The doctor looked at my wound 
before the pulling began and said it was 
"doing" beautifully. To me it has the 
air of a very sick oyster. However, 
the doctor has a professional eye and I 
believe he is informed. 
181 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

While I was still limp avec douleur and 
the nurse was walking out of the room 
with Pete's invisible knife sticking in 
her back and an air of having done 
something agreeable, Mrs. P. and her 
lovely sister came in, bringing us illus- 
trated papers, smiles, books and a heav- 
enly odor. They are the only angels, so 
far, who have "caught on" to our literary 
"tastes," God bless 'em (not the tastes 
but the ladies). Four volumes — "La 
Vie Litteraire" of Anatole France, and 
a "Student at Arms" by Donald Hankey. 

Mrs. P. spoke of Hankey as though 
she had fed him from her breast, but I 
know she has never seen him. But 
such is the power of a man in his book. 
Turning his pages I immediately had a 
feeling of something like love for Hankey 
myself. I hope acquaintance won't 
change the feeling. I wonder how Han- 
key liked Anatole France ? (Hankey 
is dead somewhere in Flanders.) No 
matter, they are together, in print, on 
my table, along with my pipe, the manu- 
18:2 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



script of "Dear Emily" and a cablegram 
from H. The latter came this early 
morning and brought as much pleasure 
as the nurse brought pain — and that's 
saying a good deal. However, the pain is 
gone and the cablegram is still on my table. 
Cherie, I'm not for the moment a 
serene arch through which to pass, but 
like Summer, I must say good-by. 

E, 

Sepi ember 3d, 1918. 
Hospital 54, Diiiard. 
Cherie — 

Yesterday I heard all day a sharp 
clipping sound in the little parklike 
garden under our sea window. Pete 
told me a man was cutting the hedge. 
To-day he is burning his trimmings — 
the air is fragrant with the odor — it 
mingles with Neptune's salty breath. 
I close my eyes and dream of pirates' 
bonfires by autumnal shores of perilous 
seas. I dream of October gardens — 
Summer burning her old clothes. Sum- 
183 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

mer? How quickly she has played her 
part this year. I've hardly been aware 
of her. A man without a garden knows 
nothing about summer. Now and again 
I've been conscious of flowers — those 
of my first battlefield, I shall never 
forget — but flowers as a sign of long- 
summer months — of thin coats and 
straw hats — of picnics and breathless 
nights — of all that I've had no hint. 
A little while ago I was writing of the 
icicle fringe on the "green chalet" and 
then of the coming of spring to Roville 
— then June and the battlefield flowers, 
and now the peppery smell of burning 
leaves is in the air. 

It would be a pity to live intensely 
all one's life, the beauty of the "game" 
would go by quite unnoticed. It was 
always November at Croisset, when Flau- 
bert lived there. He couldn't see the 
sunset for Emma — she kept his eyes 
riveted to his pen. One must be a 
lazybones to do justice to a cloud, a 
wave or a bouquet of flowers. I saw 
184 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

a bouquet of flowers lately — in fact 
I lived with it for a week (a blessS could 
easily be mistaken for a lazybones). 
An old lady brought it to Pete ; she 
had gathered it from her ancient garden 
and she had arranged it. Hawaiian 
fans and Chinese lanterns were pale be- 
side it — orange- vermilion, blue — pied, 
striped, freckled — it was gorgeous as 
an embroidery. Its double blazed in 
our mirror. There were stiff rosettes 
from an Arabian dancer's headdress — 
there were coral things that hung aside 
like long earrings — there were full-blown 
circles turning their backs — there were 
little moons painted by Veronese — and 
bells of wine color and blood color ; there 
were feathery things that trailed and 
escaped — and clusters of little butterfly 
wings crowded together — and spotted 
tongues and shining swords and enamel 
paints and emerald sprays — and over 
it all an atmosphere of long ago — of 
I don't know what — quiet old parlors 
and lovely old gardens. It lived with 
185 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

us for a week and we were sorry when 
the Head Nurse said it was dead. 

Do you find my letter strange ? It 
has been interrupted several times. 1st. 
By a charming young lady come to see 
Pete. She was blondly beautiful. Her 
husband has been a prisoner in Germany 
since three years. Her little boy has 
never seen his father (I often think war 
is harder on the women than on the men). 
2nd. A yellow canoe appeared on the 
high tide — it was charming — we 
watched it for a long time. 3rd. Jeanne 
came in bringing a family ice-cream 
freezer for our dinner — the first ice 
cream I've had this summer. 4th. La 
soupe. 5th. Le communique — the Eng- 
lish are working well. And now it is twi- 
light — an inter-tissue of gold and pearls. 
I'm always thoughtless after dinner — 
I smoke my pipe — through its gray 
v/reaths I smile at you and say good-by. 

E. 

This isn't a letter. I send you a 
bouquet. 

186 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



September 5th, 1918. 

Hopital 54, Dinard. 
Dear Mother — 

Don't expect this is to be an agreeable 
or an interesting or a hopeful letter 
It cannot be. The rolling splendors of 
the world are, for me at this moment 
growing black. Why.? Give ear — I'm' 
smoking my last pipe. No more tobacco. 
The rmgs vanishing over my nose are 
melancholy as funeral bells. My last 
pipe! \Miat shall I do this evening 
after la soupe? Heaven help me. I've 
warned Pete to be prepared for a violent 
change in my deportment. I shall, being 
smokeless, become, I'm sure, both pain- 
fully irritating and sickeningly pessi- 
mistic. It's no joke. I'm irritated now, 
reahzmg my last pipe is between my 
lips. Since the dawn cracked a hired 
man has scoured Dinard trying to buy 
tobacco at any price in any form ; not 
a leaf or the dust of one was to be found. 
Hearing this deadly report, I tearfully 
inquired if I might be given an old willow 
187 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

chair or a dose of ether. They laughed 
at me. To-night will be awful. I pity 
the gentle Captain and the Head Nurse. 
However for the moment I'm smoking, 
and while this fleeting paradise is under 
my nose I do wrong to groan over tor- 
ments to come. Perhaps — straw to a 
sinking sailor — perhaps N. will come 
in later bringing a five-cent package. 
Wliy did I ever offer a comrade a cigar- 
ette ? I recall days, weeks even, when 
I was positively burdened with tobacco. 
This moment sees me reduced to a burn- 
ing thimbleful. The Lord giveth, the 
Lord taketh away ! 

Well, what is there to write al^out.^^ 
My window .f* It is a holiday picture 
— muslin and silk on the shingle — kids 
building castles in the sand — bathers 
playing leapfrog — gentlemen in white 
duck sitting on camp stools, smoking. 
The tide is out — he rolls on Nahant 
beach — the villas opposite have let 
down their awnings ; they look like quiet 
ladies reading novels. 
188 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

On the hotel balcony a group of 
American soldiers sit with their feet 
on the railing. They are smoking. If 
you wish to think I refer to their feet 
as smoking you may. Feet — mine are 
gradually becoming normal. The week 
of marching before the attack of July 
21st was a tragedy for my feet. My 
toes all but didn't drop off. As far 
as their smell pleased me, I should have 
been only too glad if they had. 

Mon Dieu, Mother, my pipe is burning 
low. In a very few minutes it will be 
finished and with it my hopes and my 
happiness. Pete looks suddenly fright- 
ened. Already I've prepared a nasty 
remark for the Head Nurse when she 
shall stick her disgusting face into the 
room. What a hateful sight this win- 
dow presents — stupid monkeys in mus- 
lin and duck. These children should 
be beaten for screaming so near a hospital. 
Horrors ! my pipe is dead — 

E. 



189 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

P.S. Saved — no joking — N. has 
come in and brought four dollars' worth 
of English tobacco. She also brought 
a large box of sardines and a most 
charming gentleman — a painter — Mr, 
Clifford Grayson. Ask M. if she knows 
his work. Saved — saved — my pipe is 
blazing like a foundry chimney. 

E. 

September 7th, 1918. 
Hopifal 54, Dinard. 
CJierie — 

My letter of yesterday morning prom- 
ised another — it was to be written after 
breakfast. It wasn't — I've forgotten 
what kept me out of the ink-pot. No 
matter — I remember the subject — 
something about gods and prayers on 
the battlefield. Since being a blesse, 
spending these long days in bed, I've 
thought about God and prayers and 
wondered why, when the horrors of 
a modern battlefield were around me 
as thick as August flies, the thought 
190 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

to pray never crossed my mind. Some- 
how, I find this strange. The night 
of June 11th, when I rolled up in a blanket 
beside Pete in the bombarded ravine, 
would have been a natural moment to 
pray — instinctively. Comfort either 
physical or spiritual was at a premium. 
I could so easily have made a good 
prayer that night — but I didn't think 
about it. Strange. Same omission July 
20th. That awful night before the at- 
tack — on the battlefield before Soissons 

— exliausted and depressed — I never 
thought of praying for whatever prayer 
might give me. I wonder where a man 
must be in order to pray — like a savage 
I was going to say — to pray blindly, 
recklessly almost — in his need for com- 
fort. I certainly needed comfort that 
night, and wouldn't have been at all 
fussy from whence it came. It rained 

— our ditch was muddy — we were hun- 
gry — exhausted — struck — why didn't 
I pray ? I would have had I thought to 

— why didn't I think of it.? I slept a 

191 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

little — at one o'clock we were told to 
cock our guns and fall into line. 

The atmosphere of that hour was 
criminal. A village burning away off 
put a baleful flicker in the landscape. 
The dead, friendly and otherwise, hud- 
dled under foot — odd shadows on which 
we were careful not to step. Now and 
again a rocket burst overhead — deli- 
cate white flowers floating dreamily. 
The enemy was looking for us. I had 
an especial horror of these rockets. 

"Well, old man, how do you feel?" 
I said to the fellow beside me — Francois 
Le Breton. "My star," he answered, 
"I trust in my star." And there is 
the nearest approach to a religious senti- 
ment that I've ever heard from a soldier. 
Soldiers are fatalists. Chance is the 
fighting man's God. Take your chance 
and advance (as though Chance were 
an ivory image carried in one's pocket) 
is an honest parting message to a 
soldier. "Good chance" they call one 
to another. 

192 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

During the infernal barrage — day- 
break, July 21st — I was vividly con- 
scious of Chance — my Chance — my 
protector — scurrying around me. It 
was something with abnormally long 
legs — it was male — so much is cer- 
tain ; vaguely I think it was more like 
a devil in appearance than an angel, 
but it may have been a man-angel 
whose face was tortured by excitement. 
Anyway, I knew it for Chance and knew 
also it was working to save me. I did 
nothing — I left it all to Chance. In 
fact there was absolutely nothing for 
me to do — our orders being to remain 
in the rut until word came to advance. 
Chance worked like a Trojan — like 
a mad Trojan ; I watched him, slightly 
amused — he reminded me of a jump- 
ing-jack, his legs were so long and active. 
The thicker the high explosives the 
calmer I became. I examined the peb- 
bles in the rut — I quietly bandaged 
the wounds of a man who fell nearly 
on top of me. Chance was straddling 
193 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

around — this side, that side, over me — 
Hke a maniac. 

"I'm still alive, I'm still alive," I said 
aloud, perhaps to tell Chance not to 
lose heart ; perhaps I fancied he might 
miss sight of me — the air was so murky 
with powder and flying dirt — and mis- 
take another soldier for me. The tanks 
went by — I saw them in the wild light 
of a terrible explosion. My dear Lieu- 
tenant called ''En avant^^ — his voice 
was raw. I was glad to be on my feet — 
I was tremendously alive — it was almost 
sexual. 

Then in the demoniacal turnip field 
I saw the God of War — and I saw 
Death ; he was a crumpled thing dressed 
in blue and green and khaki — a mist 
was on his back. Chance, I distinctly 
realized, had left me. His parting words 
were "Now, E., you must scuffle for 
yourself." I didn't see him again until 
two hours later. After I received my 
bullet and was told to get to the rear 
if possible, I met him again. He was 
194 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



before me, looking over his shoulder — 
kept zigzagging the path — now to the 
right, now to the lef t — as the "mar- 
mites" fell now here, now there. My 
faith in him during that return was com- 
plete. He was my God. I walked tran- 
quilly behind him — and he gently dis- 
appeared as I neared the Poste de Se- 
cours. Other gods — Fatigue and Pain 
— took me in charge — relatively merry 
gods. Cherie, you think this all a 
fancy — a joke ? Its every word is out 
of my deepest consciousness. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Dinard. 
September 22, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

My decor is at this minute worth 
mentioning. It is nine o'clock and I'm 
in bed, of course. Pete is also in bed 
with a newspaper. We have just come 
in from a day at the Villa. The decor 
is outside the window but the room 
195 



^.V AMERICAN POILU 

is brilliant with it — it is a kind of glad 
fury. The tide, the moon — both are 
full. The highest tide of the year, I've 
been told. Riding home by the digue 
we saw the crowd watching, in the moon- 
light roar ; we hear the cries of admira- 
tion as roller after roller explodes on 
the sea wall. In the brocaded blueness 
I see the clouds of spray like an apple 
orchard in bloom. I think of the lines 
of a poem I read recently (in French 
but I write in U. S.). 

*'The sea is more beautiful 
Than the cathedrals." 

The other day a poilu asked me in all 
seriousness if my father had spoken 
United States. I think he thought he 
may have used the lovely language of 
Minnehaha. I answered without a smile 
that my father was born in England, 
but my mother was a Redskin whom my 
father met while trapping bears. He 
bored me by beginning to talk of the 
"Last of the Mohicans." 
196 



^iV AMERICAN POILU 

Monday Morning — Dear Mother — 
I don't know whether it was the 
sea or my pedigree that knocked the 
pen out of my hand last night. Any- 
way, the pen fell from my hand and I 
dropped asleep. Did I dream of Diane 
and Neptune? I did not. Well, the 
tide is at flood again and the sun is 
playing the moon's part — golden ex- 
plosions over the sea wall. I'm cold. 
My feet are frozen. You see I am 
exposing my wound. It's a tiny little 
red eye now which should heal over in 
no time but, being placed as it is directly 
in the bend of the knee, we don't know 
when it will heal. Its tardiness irri- 
tates me. 

Pete will go before I do and I shall 
be miserable again. I fancy they will 
move me out of this beautiful chamber. 
And for how long I shall be swinging 
around on these crutches I don't know. 
I'm getting quite expert with them now 
and appear at teas and dinners like 
any other well-meaning quadruped. A 
197 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

very stiff leg and a handsome pair of 
crutches help to "make" a drawing 
room. The crutches love "to go." 

Devotedly, 

E. 

Dinard. 
September 26, 1918. 
Cherie — 

In order to make room for our recent 
high tides tlie Nile-green cabins were 
dragged beyond the shingle. This was 
three or four days ago and I notice 
they have not been put back again. This 
is a real sign that summer is over. The 
colored gayety of the beach has vanished. 
My window is wanting in animation. 
A few khaki soldiers playing baseball 
on the rather khaki-toned sand do noth- 
ing to enliven the scene. To be sure 
this noon, when the waves were break- 
ing near the sea wall, a few pink and 
blue fellows went in for a swim, but I 
fancy they were "huskies" hardening 
their muscles. 

198 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

It is autumn and a little quiet and 
sad. I am sorry to find it gone — the 
summer — for all it was a wounded 
one. These weeks in hospital with Pete 
and the window have been pleasant and 
now winter yawns in our faces a trifle 
discouragingly. How often our wounds 
are blessings camouflaged. Winter — 
my winter — is hidden in mystery. But 
I was never frightened seriously by 
mystery. I must go where I am 
sent and do my best until the game 
is over. 

To-day a letter informs us that the 
Seme Cie. has, as far as we knew it, 
ceased to exist ; most of my comrades 
are dead or wounded and the officers 
changed for the same reasons. Pete's 
wound has proved too slow in healing, 
and his company has been taken by 
another Captain. Of course this does 
not mean that we may not be just as 
happy and fortunate as we were last 
winter. The letter told of another attack 
in the vicinity of Noyon in which the 
199 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

gas had proved extremely mortal for 
our beloved 412me. I think I prefer 
to be shot rather than gassed. Many 
of the men were horribly burned — in 
the face, under the arms, and between 
the legs. Some were blinded. I see 
that Germany is protesting against the 
use of gas through the Swiss Red Cross. 
The hypocritical beast ! She was the 
first to use it. 

If I am killed before the war ends I 
hope you will send me a copy of the 
peace contract. In doubt where, send 
two copies — one to heaven. 

By the way, I was once in Heaven. 
I spent an afternoon there. At Beauvais, 
on the operating table, naked as when 
I was born, I slipped off the edge of 
the world and when, some hours later, 
I returned, I felt that I had been in 
Heaven. Divine awakening — no mem- 
ory record — but the health and serenity 
of young temples around me. Surely 
I had been somewhere that had done me 
good. 

200 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

This is rare, I have been told by nurses 
and doctors, and my orderly experience 
at Neuilly tells me also. Most men 
return from anaesthesia in agony — strug- 
gles — nausea — cries — terrors, etc. I 
came out with the ease with which I im- 
agine a white flower blooms. I felt like 
new milk. ''Monsieur etait doux comme 
un enfant,''^ said the nurse, when I asked 
if I had behaved badly while unconscious. 
The poor chap in the bed beside me at 
Laval suffered unspeakable horror dur- 
ing his operation and before regaining 
consciousness. A whiff of ether made 
him shudder. I was in Heaven, conse- 
quently I love the smell of ether. 

We talked of this the other day chez 
Madame B. She is interested in theories 
of reincarnation and she assured me 
that I had been on the astral plane for 
an afternoon. I was quite ready to 
believe her. Monsieur B. made a pom- 
pous bow and said, *' Mes felicitations, 
mon cher ami.'* Well, after all, one is 
helpless under ether. You remember 
201 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

I paid for that outing some hours hiter 
— and wept — and was rebuked. 

Devotedly, 

E. 

Dinard. 
September 27, 1918. 
Cherie — 

Yesterday the declejichement d^une of- 
fensive in Champagne — twelve thousand 
prisoners the first day means a brilliant 
start. To-night the news that Bulgaria 
has asked for an armistice. These are 
items of good news as I write but old- 
fashioned when you read them. A\Tiat 
a powerful word dccJcncheinent! As I 
recall our attack of July 21st, I feel the 
force of the word. 

The awful silence in which we crept 
to our position of attack — the ugly 
waiting for the expectant moment — the 
demoniacal outroar when the bolt was 
drawn and the hell was upon us. If the 
city of New York should topple in 
the sky and fall to the ground, the crash 
202 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

would be like a whisper to the racket 
of that dawn. I wonder that the entire 
regiment didn't perish from the mere 
sound alone. Its fury turned Jehovah's 
wrath into a shepherd's piping, and ten 
thousand Wagners, "ragging" ten thou- 
sand orchestras, into the murmur of a 
parlor seashell. But what's the use — 
I only amuse myself — you can't hear 
it. I've really forgotten myself how 
monstrous it was. Memory cannot hold 
so much noise. 

The silence of the moon is incom- 
parable — to-night. 

I had just finished my supper this 
evening when Mrs. C. T. came in to 
*' cheer me up." She is working at the 
Y. M. C. A. (called simply the Y.) and 
talks a blue streak about "our dear 
boys." She vows she loves each one 
and finds each one singularly charming. 
''They are so clean, Mr. II. — and so 
witt3\" The conversation dropped ele- 
gantly into vermin. "We laughed about 
lice. The war has ennobled the beastie. 
203 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

One may discuss him at tea parties. He 
"stalks" in between the empresses of 
Germany and Russia. Like my com- 
rades I've always called him "toto." 
A charming pet name. One might in 
ecstasy call his sweetheart ** To to." I 
believe some "ones" do. Mrs. C. T. 
informs me that "our dear boys" call 
him " Cootie." The English soldiers call 
him (but they are always plural) "seam 
squirrels." I wonder what his name is 
in the German trenches and the Austrian ? 
And what does the Italian soldier say 
when he scratches himself, etc. etc., even 
to Mesopotamia ? Strangely enough I've 
never yet been intimate with a " To to", 
but I've seen my comrades chasing 
him with a sort of Daniel Boone look in 
their eyes. "Seam squirrels" is funny, 
isn't it ? 

Good night, 
E. 



204 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

Sunday Ttvilight, Dinard. 

September 29, 1918. 
Dear Mother — 

As you read "Sunday Twilight" do 
you see an azure sky brocaded with 
rosy and goldeny clouds (as though the 
seraphs had hung out their ball dresses 
for an airing) ? Do you see the shad- 
owy villas going to sleep under the 
September trees ? Do you hear the tide 
coming in like a tired and complaining 
child ? 

How the days have dwindled ; no 
more long evening poems after dinner — 
and the sun is hardly up to light our 
breakfast. Our charming summer has 
disappeared and autumn has crept in 
through the fence, staining the woodbine 
red. Our charming summer ? Does that 
sound selfish and forgetful ? Perhaps 
— still I have seen Her in the gardens, 
on the sands, in the sky, bathing in the 
sea (you know how She does get about !) 
and She has been so pretty. Once look- 
205 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

ing into Her eyes the slaughter fields 
seem far away, and one forgets his nar- 
row escape. 

I remember my first day here at 
Dinard, looking at the beach brilliant 
with holiday and sunshine, and I thought, 
is it possible that only a day's journey 
from here men are facing all the horrors 
of battle? I couldn't believe it. A 
month has only strengthened my un- 
belief, and yet each day has been bloody 
somewhere in France. To-night — in 
this blue stillness (the seraphs are drag- 
ging in their traps) — can it be possible 
that that hell is going on — that hell 
I know? How dare I say "charming 
summer" ! However, against the black 
curtain of war I have seen Her white 
throat and blond curls — She has been 
here — She has gone — and Her love- 
liness has touched me. I came so near 
losing Her — so near — A soldier is 
indeed like a miser who counts lasciv- 
iously each golden day that falls into 
his hand. He knows their preciousness 
206 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

— he is afraid to let one slide — it 
may so easily be his last. 

I fancy this is the reason that soldiers 
are, as a rule, more reckless than post- 
men or barbers. To follow the heel 
of Death is to be sensitive to the clouds 
that gather round the setting sun. I 
have told you how we picked the flowers 
while crouching in the wheat, waiting 
for orders to advance. I knew I was 
picking mere flowers, but most of my 
comrades were picking whatever they 
had known of charm and pleasure and 
home. Had pictures been taken of their 
brains they would have shown them 
as dreamy poets rather than soldiers. 
I think all soldiers are just what might 
be called poets — which accounts for 
their divine gentleness, tenderness, brav- 
ery. The old stuff about drums and 
bluster is nonsense pulled off in musical 
comedy. I have seen, resting by the 
roadside, my whole company grown sweet 
as young girls. On the battlefield they 
smiled at one another like sisters. 
207 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

Strange, isn't it? But what was I say- 
ing about Summer ? Oh ! She has gone. 
She was charming. I hope to meet Her 
next year — 

Devotedly, 
E. 

Dinard. 
October 2, 1918. 
Cherie — 

How do you find time to read all my 
letters.^ It seems to me you must be 
dizzy picking them out of the vestibule. 
I am becoming notorious and nothing 
can stop me, I fear, but death or a 
crise d'encre. But it chances to be my 
"soul's pleasure" to write — to write 
letters. A solid form of literature — 
a book for example — would bore me, 
but letters are so easy, so elastic, so 
ready to turn in my hand. Upside 
down, head over heels, any old way. 
And a letter has always its own excuse 
— it's only a letter. No one really 
egotistical would subject his more or 
208 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



less precious thoughts to so dangerous 
a life as that of a letter. 

Between you and me lurk ten thousand 
currents capable of sending this airy 
page to limbo. Perhaps many of my 
most careful scribbles have never reached 
you, and there's a mutual satisfaction. 
Yet (notice the slightly regretful *'yet") 
— my letters are my best — my mark- 
ings — my heart. I think as they do. 
My days and night are on these lines. 
Strange how we spin less than the field 
spider. Like cobwebs hanging between 
two grasses we (or they or I) need the 
sun to make them shine. Sunday last 
I said you were a golden bouquet; 
to-night I ask you to be my sun. If 
you will not be, my webs are for brooms 
and dustpans. My ink runs easiest 
toward you. In a mere kitchen glass 
of water they say there are waves obeying 
the moon. Do you agree to be my moon 
also ? 

If this pen keeps on, you will be busier 
than President Wilson, Clemenceau and 
209 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Lloyd George all in a puddle. By the 
way, what a magnificent speech our Wil- 
son has just made. It should be the 
Credo of all political bodies. He has 
given the keystone to modern govern- 
ments. I notice that it has made very 
few comments in the European papers. 
Perhaps it is too bright a flash for the 
moment. Europe is so dusty. Imagine 
the meaninglessness of the Hermes of 
Praxiteles to the American Indians. 

Pete has spent the day reading 
maps — our four walls are covered with 
them. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

October 2, 1918. 
Hospital, Dinard. 
Dear Mother — 

The last day of September we made 
a great effort and went to St. Malo 
to eat lobsters. We took N. to put a 
charm over our greedy excursion. N. 
is like you, always smiling and ready 
210 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

for an outing. After half a century of 
them she is still "game" for another. 

We lost the white Vedetta by a hair 
because the nurse was late in dressing 
my wound, and so we were obliged to 
wait on the windy jetty for half an hour 
for the sailing of the green. She was 
something like a teacup and the bay 
was choppy. My boarding of her was 
exciting — requiring the aid of three 
hairy old salts — to say nothing of Pete 
and N. Crutches were not made for 
seafarers. 

The weeny-teeny cabin was stuffy, 
and although it's only a ten-minute 
sail from Dinard to St. Malo I did not 
care to think of eating lobster during 
the voyage. Everything bobbed except 
my stiff leg. Other hairy old salts helped 
me on to terra firma. 

We walked to a quaint little cafe 
where, we had been told, the lobsters 
were fresh. It was rather sad — that 
little promenade along the sea road of 
St. Malo. I was one of a dozen or more 
211 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

poor blesses swinging on crutches. We 
smiled at one another as though we were 
bigger children playing on stilts. I rested 
on a bench while some Boche prisoners 
went by. There are many at St. Malo, 
working on the docks. They disgust 
me for all I know they are human and 
unhappy. 

There is a huge Y. M. C. A. hut at 
St. Malo for the American permission- 
naires. The crooked old streets were 
full of them. 

Well, the lobster was delicious and 
I ate more than I should have eaten — 
that is, for bodily comfort ; but, as I 
told N., we were out on a spiritual spree 
— the pursuit of a dream — which could 
not be curtailed by the size of my 
stomach. 

But at last we all took my leg out 
from under the table and put it into 
an open carriage and went for a ride. 
The driver was young and stupid and 
the horse very old and quite mad — 
suddenly stopping and backing down 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

hill. It began to rain so we spent a 
pleasant and dangerous afternoon. 

We sailed back to Dinard in another 
teacup and I was in bed, tired as a dog, 
at six o'clock. We succeeded in bringing 
the lobster we had eaten with us and 
perhaps that explains my dreams that 
night. They were crimson, my dreams, 
not with lobsters but with bloody sol- 
diers. All my dreams (some horrors) 
since July 21st are of battlefields. Re- 
cently I had a letter from Lieutenant 
H. in which he said he had dreamed the 
previous night of our fighting the Boche 
like demons. Interesting to think of 
the dreams in a war hospital. Fancy 
the curdling nightmares of wounded 
men. 

Yesterday we teaed at the Villa. F. 
had brought from Jersey a lot of English 
buns. Some charming American officers 
were there. One, a lieutenant from 
Philadelphia, was recovering from a 
wound in the wrist. He was studying 
theology when he entered the army and 
213 



^iV AMERICAN POILU 

was married three days before he sailed 
for Europe. In a week he returns to 
his regiment. I don't know why I tell 
you all this. But he was such a nice 
fellow. I hope he will escape again and 
go home to his bride and his theology. 

E. 

October 6, 1918. 
Hopifal 54, Dinard. 
Dear Mother — 

I've pulled out my pad and taken 
up my pen more from habit than from 
any special desire to write. Nothing 
very much going on outside or inside 
my head. The day is thin-blue, the 
tide is out, the window in its dullest 
mood. One or two or four doughboys 
strolling on the beach, looking doubt- 
lessly for summer. One or two or four 
ladies strolling after them, looking for 
meat and potatoes, perhaps. Doesn't 
sound very gay, does it ^ 

Pete is at the little table trying to 
answer a letter received last March. 
214 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Of course I'm propped up In bed, writing 
words from a background of thought- 
lessness. And you, Cherie, what are 
you doing, I wonder. I'm too lazy to 
reckon what o'clock it may be in M. 

Well, let me tell you about the "Queen 
of Dinard." She is an American and 
is eighty-eight years old and has reigned 
here for half a century. She dresses 
in pink velvet and her bonnets resemble 
crowns. She dances and sings and holds 
her court nightly. Half the cemeteries 
of Europe have dined with her. She 
was a famous beauty in the time of 
Napoleon III and is still handsomer 
than most of Eve's daughters. I have 
heard of her since I first knew Paris. 
A week ago I was presented — or rather 
she was presented to me — or rather to 
my stiff leg. 

Mrs. P. gave a large tea and I accepted 
an invitation. Wien I got into the 
hall and heard the buzz I said to Pete, 
"Perhaps I've done wrong to come on 
crutches to an affair of this kind." 
215 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Mrs. P. was immediately by my side 
and led me to the Salon and put me 
down in one and my leg up in another 
chair. A table covered with "tea" was 
near at hand and the prettiest girl in 
the party to entertain me. 

The Queen arrived — everybody got 
up (I was forbidden to) and she was 
brought to me — presented and seated 
in front of my leg. I was amazed by 
her beauty and the sweetness of her 
personality. She was like a flower left 
on a tomb. She talked melodiously 
while looking intensely at me, as though 
she would take the youth out of my 
face (thirty-six is young to eighty -eight). 
I wanted to look quite as intensely at 
her — to see how she had done it — but 
of course I couldn't. She was a miracle 
of camouflage. Her coffin (I mean her 
carriage) was announced and away she 
went, gentle as an old song, to a dinner 
party, a dance, or her own lovely funeral. 
Sitting in the embers of her departure 
I heard my crutches say, "Pussy cat, 
216 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Pussy cat, where have you been ? I've 
been to London to see the Queen." 
Then we all went home. 

E. 

October 8, 1918. 
Hopital 54, Dinard. 
Beloved Mother — 

This is your birthday and since I 
awoke this early morning I've been 
thinking what I could send you, as 
a birthday gift. I want to send you 
something charming like a lace handker- 
chief or a basket of mauve sweetgrass or 
a bouquet. I want to send you a gift 
to show you I'm glad it is your birth- 
day and that I've remembered the exact 
date. But we are far apart and my arm 
is shorter than my dreams. I can only 
write you a gift. I have been thinking 
what I could write. I have been look- 
ing about into the mirror, up at the 
ceiling, out of the rainy window for a 
lovely idea for a gift for you. Mirror, 
ceiling, window have nothing lovely 
217 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

enough for you. I look into my mem- 
ory — there I see a Queen, a Cathedral, 
a wounded soldier. Yes, I say to my 
pen, this Queen, this Cathedral, this 
wounded soldier will do nicely for 
mother's birthday gift. 

The other day a very pretty lady 
came to see me, who but lately had been 
in London helping in a hospital all sum- 
mer. She had taken care of some of 
the wounded American soldiers. She 
was enthusiastic about their marvelous 
courage and gayety while enduring almost 
daily suffering. ITer eyes filled with 
tears as she told of one case — a giant 
from Texas who had lost both legs and 
both arms. A magnificent torso and 
head were all the surgeons had saved. 
This remnant of a Texas soldier was 
the gayety of her ward. His drollerj^ and 
jokes made the sad man who had lost 
his left hand laugh. Every one loved 
him. 

A great service was to be celebrated 
in St. Paul's for the American dead, 
218 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

and the day before the soldier from 
Texas told a visiting friend of his 
desire to attend the solemnity. The 
friend was only too happy to arrange 
it, and did. 

Imagine his entrance into the crowded 
cathedral — a murmur at the doors — 
a withdrawing — a hush. No bandage 
or blanket could hide his disaster. He 
was pushed down the quivering aisle. 
The Queen — Queen Mary — said, 
"Bring him here. His place is by my 
side." 

In the royal company, beside the 
Queen, the soldier from Texas celebrated 
the service for the dead. Long live 
Mary of England ! 

Dear mother, this is what I found 
in my memory to send you for your 
birthday gift. I hope it will please you. 
I think it will. A gift is something that 
makes the receiver richer. A sentiment 
is lovely as pearls. A gift is a recogni- 
tion, a tenderness, a perfume passing 
from one to another. This story of 
219 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

the Queen and the mutilated soldier 

is just that — a gift ! 

Devotedly, 

E. 

October 16, 1018. 
Hopital 54, Dinard. 
Dear Mother — 

When I was helping at the American 
Ambulance at Neuilly I remember I 
never felt the slightest difficulty in re- 
gard to facing the wounds — shocking, 
appalling, disgusting as they so often 
were. I recollect watching with almost 
indifference the "dressings" — dressings 
that must have been the white heat 
of torture to the victims. I noted their 
pinched-up foreheads and wild eyes. I 
heard their teeth and their dry cries. 
I felt their grip on my arm but it seems 
to me now that I felt nothing — or 
almost nothing — of all the agony then 
around me. A horribly bad wound was 
to me at that time rather fascinating. 

Since July '21st my attitude has 
220 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

changed. I dislike to see a comrade's 
wound. To hear the cries through the 
walls even strangles me. At Beauvais 
I was suffering too keenly myself to 
look about at the other fellows waiting 
to be put on the dressing tables. I was 
brought in and carried out, mindful 
only of my own little hell in the general 
disaster. I never cried aloud but I 
clutched like a maniac at the man who 
held me. But at Laval, my condition 
having ameliorated, I was able — in fact 
forced — to look about when daily I 
was dressed in the salle de pansement. 
Wliat I had found interesting at Neuilly 
as an orderly I found almost unbearable 
as a blesse at Laval. When I saw the 
nurse was preparing to insert a 
meche into a comrade's side, or wher- 
ever, I had to close my eyes and think 
of something else until his sigh died 
away. 

Have I never told you what a meche 
is ? It is the devil's finger : in other 
words it is a long narrow strip of cotton 
221 



^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

cloth wet with acid which, with the 
help of pincers, the Heathen Deity (gen- 
erally a smiling young girl) forces inch 
after inch into your wound up to the 
quick. It slightly reminds one of a 
dentist's drill on an exposed nerve but, 
really, the drill is nothing compared to 
the meche. For a month I was treated 
to the meche. Pete for a fortnight had 
two in his shoulder wound. The fat 
nice Cure who came now and again 
to see us at Laval told he had seen a 
wounded soldier with six. The Cure 
said the hero recovered but I think the 
Cure was mistaken. Three meches would 
kill any man. 

At Dinard I've been fortunate, hav- 
ing seen very few wounds. The nurse 
comes to our room to do our dressings. 
But yesterday I did go to the salle de 
pansement to have my scabby scar 
washed. The room was crowded with 
blesses waiting attention, their wounds 
exposed. It was most painful to see. 
The brutality of mangled flesh is awful. 
222 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

One little man yelled a good deal while 

the nurse dressed the raw place where 

once his big toe had been. But he was 

quiet when they carried him away. 

In the afternoon I heard him singing. 

His chamber is next ours. He sang 

like a lark all the afternoon. I heard 

later he was happy from having received 

a letter from his wife. This morning 

at five o'clock he was found dead in 

his bed. 

Devotedly , 

E. 

October 21, 1918. 
Ilopital 54, Dinard. 
Cherie — 

If you have a memory and are a bit 
of a sentimentalist you have laid my 
plate at your dinner table to-night and 
before drinking your wine thanked 
Chance that I'm alive. This is almost 
the anniversary of my death. Three 
months ago this date I was covered 
with blood and dirt and, exhausted 
223 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

as a slave, was riding with a thousand 
wounded comrades away from the front 
toward Beauvais. 

I've never told you about that train 
journey, and I'm not going to now ; it 
is too horrid to send in a letter. Not 
only was I suffering with my wound — 
not only was I tired to tears — but I was 
burning with anger — with anger toward 
every official I met — because every 
official was so damnably rude. I was 
shocked, pained, insulted, mad. We were 
treated like dogs simply because we were 
"common soldiers." And I forgot and 
gave a "piece of my mind" and was 
nearly arrested, wound and all. 

Three months ago to-night by a mir- 
acle I was not dead as Marley on that 
demoniacal beet-field near the highroad 
to Soissons — the highroad between Sois- 
sons and Chateau-Thierry. We will go 
there after the wa^ and I will show you 
the hill on which I fell. 

To-day the doctor examined my wound 
and pronounced it healed and ordered 
224 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

the cotton wool to be removed forever. 
I say forever, but now he wishes to 
watch the wound for ten days or so to 
see that it does not reopen. He fears 
it may. To-day the order for Pete's 
removal arrived. In two days he will 
leave me. We are both trying to be chic, 
but we are both miserable. The change 
for me is to be enormous. I lose every- 
thing — Cest la guerre! But still I re- 
member this night might have been the 
anniversary of my death. 

Devotedly, 
E. 

November 7, 1918. 
Hopital Complementaire, No. 1, Rennes. 

Clierie — 

In order to get the story of my life 
up to date I must write a very long letter. 
We do not like long letters but I will 
try to color it so as not to seriously bore 
you, although the mere adventures of 
my recent days seem to me quite as 
225 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

romantic as a novel by Walter Scott. 
I am certainly Fortune's darling ; good 
luck follows me like a black demon or 
a white angel or a tawny Newfoundland 
dog. I can't escape the milk of human 
kindness, and why this is so remains 
my daily riddle. If either you or mother 
can guess the answer, please write it 
to me. But of course you can't, because 
you and mother are part of the enigma. 
But to begin my story : that I should 
have been wounded so soon after the 
Captain and after a little time sent to 
him at Dinard was a miracle. Dinard 
— all summer and blue sea; Dinard of 
charming friends and books and the 
healing wounds. Only one fly was in 
our amber — the thought that in all 
likelihood Pete's wound would heal before 
mine and that he would be sent to the 
east, and later when mine would be 
healed I would be sent to the west. 
Of course, being soldiers, we didn't 
worry about this, still the prospect wasn't 
agreeable, — a fly in the Dinard amber. 
^226 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Pete's shoulder healed first and the 
doctor said he was now ready to go to 
Rennes for massage treatment. "And 
Monsieur H.?" asked Pete. "Well, I 
think he will be ready to follow you in 
eight or ten days," answered the doctor. 
By-the-way, the doctor was the thinnest, 
slowest, gentlest man I've ever seen. 
At the head of every hospital there is 
an officer called "/e questionnaire.'" 
Well, our Dinard ''questionnaire'', hear- 
ing that the Captain was to leave before 
the American, came to our room and 
told Pete he was free to remain until his 
friend was ready to go. Instantly, we 
placed an invisible crown of expensive 
roses on "/e questionnaire's'' head. He 
was a fat little man and looked charm- 
ingly droll wearing our wreath. 

So Pete waited and the last raw spot 
of my wound covered over and the 
order came from Rennes and the day 
of our departure arrived. Our train 
would leave at four o'clock. We began 
to pack our luggage soon after breakfast. 
007 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Of course we knew we were to be in sepa- 
rate hospitals in Rennes, and I had been 
told mine, Le Lycee, was a horror, but 
at least we were to have the pleasure of 
encountering the strange newness to- 
gether, and no telling how much Pete 
would be able to assist me. A poilu is 
a poilu and a Captain is a Captain. 

Pete bent over to put Walt Whitman 
into the trunk, and on straightening 
up he gave a cry and fell down in a heap. 
I ran to him, helped him on to the bed, 
and called the Head Nurse. The doctor 
came and pronounced it an acute attack 
of lumbago. For an hour his suffering 
was intense and, naturally, we knew 
it would be impossible for him to go 
to Rennes that day. "He might be 
confined to his bed for a week," the 
doctor said. "What a horrid joke," 
we thought, "after he had waited for 
me, and now after all I must go alone." 

"Never," said Pete, "I leave to-mor- 
row, lumbago or no lumbago." 

We turned him on his belly and off 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

and on, for the next twentj^-four hours, 
the Head Nurse, La Comtesse de Mad- 
rid, and I massaged his back. (As a 
matter of fact he has since learned the 
attack was not hmibago but a case of 
exhausted nerves caused by his wound. 
He has had four severe operations, you 
know.) 

The following day he insisted on getting 
up. We got our traps together and 
took the four o'clock train for Rennes. 
I walked like a cripple, Pete walked 
like a tired old man. We were obliged 
to change trains three times. There 
was no one to lend a hand. We were 
covered with luggage, bags and bags 
and coats and canes and a huge sword. 
However, we managed, and in a hotel 
near the station (a very smelly hotel) 
we found two good beds, got into them 
and slept like a couple of judges. The 
next day we proposed to steal for a 
holiday, that is, we would not appear 
at our hospitals until twenty-four hours 
later. 

229 



^iV AMERICAN POILU 

Rennes is a very old town and a very 
dead one. It is full of weird old corners 
and strange towers and mysterious stairs 
and sloping gables. We wandered under 
the old arches with the centuries. We 
visited the park and looked into the 
churches. We drank port in a Rem- 
brandt cafe. W^e lunched like lords at 
the only chic restaurant. We changed 
our hotel and took rooms with a bath. 
We scrubbed before going to bed and 
on getting up next morning. 

At nine o'clock I registered at the 
Lycee. Pete left to find his own hospital, 
after talking about me to three or four 
officials. Some one gave me a slip of 
paper on which was written Lit 106, 
Salle II. I mounted to the second 
story and found my corner. I was 
thankful it was a corner. Salle II was 
a vast, dirty ward, containing nearly 
fifty unpleasant looking beds. They were 
covered with gorgeous, shabby quilts, 
red, blue, green, etc. Some of the win- 
dows were open ; of that I was glad. 
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^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

The crippled poilus were sitting about, 
playing cards or smoking. There were 
negroes from far away, Italians, Rus- 
sians and Chinese looking fellows from 
the East. I was happy to see that the 
occupant of the bed beside mine was a 
clear-eyed Breton. He began to talk 
with me at once and was surprised to 
hear I was an American. 

A drawing on the dirty wall pictured 
a starving Kaiser. Outside the trees 
were yellow and sad. A very dismal 
*'home" I thought. How should I be 
able to relax to the long long days there ? 
What would the meals be like.? I went 
down and took a look at the salle-a- 
manger; it was awful — a filthy sty. 
The poor poilu, I thought. From noon 
until four o'clock I was free to go out. 
I began to wonder how I could eat three 
meals during the afternoon. Of course 
there was no heat and, I learned later, 
no light after dark. And November 
days are so short and so miserable. 

At noon I went out and met Pete 
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AN AMERICAN POILU 

and made as good a story as I could 
of my "home." He was distressed and 
began to think how he could change 
matters. Briefly, he saw a friend, and 
on entering the hospital that night, a 
charwoman, from whom I asked sheets, 
said, "You are to go to La Retraite." 
Well, La Retraite couldn't be worse 
and it might be better. I took my bag 
and by the light of the charwoman's 
candle found my way through the ghastly 
hallways, passed the guarded door, and 
following directions, presented myself 
at La Retraite. 

A charming man, Le Pere Fleury, 
greeted me. His bureau was warm and 
cosy — a little coal fire burning on the 
hearth. I was invited to sit down before 
it. We talked English. Le Pere Fleury 
has been for years a missionary in India 
and speaks English very well. At pres- 
ent, he told me, there was no vacant 
chamber, but in two days he thought 
he might arrange me nicely. 

At nine o'clock the soldier who occupied 
232 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



the room in which I was to sleep showed 
me to our chamber. It was a dismal 
stone vault containing five little wooden 
beds and nothing else, except the cold 
atmosphere of repentance. I slept well 
(with a nun in my head), after getting 
used to the rats squealing in the corner. 
At seven-thirty I found the weird foun- 
tain where once the nuns, now the 
soldiers, wash, made my toilet and fol- 
lowed the men in to breakfast. The 
breakfast was delightful. A brown, low- 
studded room, spotlessly clean and smell- 
ing good. The sisters served us hot 
coffee and honest bread. The scene 
was more or less touching — a hundred 
shadowy cripples meekly eating in the 
vaguely lighted apartment. 

After breakfast I looked into the dim 
chapel ; bells were tinkling, flowers, slim 
candles burning on the altar. I walked 
out into the autumn garden. A boy 
with a pink, simple face was helping 
an old wrinkled sister cut cabbages. The 
straight little brook was yellow with 
233 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

leaves. The trees were bare. Return- 
ing to the house, I read over the door 
"Refuge des Pecheurs." A gray virgin 
looked down on me. Well, I thought, 
this is interesting, and I shuddered, 
thinking of my narrow escape from the 
Lycee. 

That night I slept in the five-bedded 
stone vault, but the following day Le 
Pere Fleury told me he had a chamber 
for me and I went to see it. The quaint- 
est little room you can imagine, on 
the sun and garden-side of the convent. 
It contained a desk, two chairs, a ro- 
mantic fireplace, a looking glass, a seduc- 
tive bed with a white pillow and a red 
covering, a night-stand, a portrait of 
St. Frangois de Sales, a lamp, a wash 
table with an adequate bowl and jug 
and (climax !) an upright piano. It was 
religiously clean. I was happy and took 
possession at once, and here I'm living. 

My good luck continued ; Le Pere 
Fleury came to me and said he would 
like to present me to La Mere Superieure. 
234 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

He did so. She was like a little black 
bell with an ivory face. A thousand 
chains and beads hung from her waist. 
She was sweet as an old picture. She 
talked rapidly and offered me the hos- 
pitality of her convent. A sister would 
be happy to prepare my breakfast and 
— *'Did I like my bread toasted.^" I 
was enchanted. The soldier whom I 
had hired to do my "work" brings my 
breakfast each morning at eight o'clock. 
Each afternoon for two hours I'm at 
the Lycee for treatment. I undress half 
a dozen times and I am given electric 
currents and massage and baths. I row 
in a fixed boat, I ride a fixed bicycle, 
I strap my leg into a strange looking 
machine, turn a wheel, and my foot 
does a queer little dance all by itself. 
Should you look into the windows while 
I'm doing my treatments you would cer- 
tainly think me quite mad at last. Of 
course Fiii allowed to stay out as long 
as I like. My comrades are gathered 
in at four o'clock. Pete and I lunch 
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^A^ AMERICAN POILU 

and dine en ville and have a very jolly 
time. So you see I shall be happy 
enough at Rennes, and if the papers 
are not joking, my leg will be cured 
by the time peace is proclaimed. 

Victory is certainly in sight ; I can 
almost hear her wings unfurling. Four 
years of war, four millions of dead only 
to uproot an ambitious family ! Peace — 
it sounds almost like a joke. And the 
dead around Verdun, and the ruins of 
northern France ! How preposterous it 
all is — even Peace. And the thousands 
of cripples here in Rennes — how do 
they pronounce the word *' Peace"? 
Heroically, I fancy. (In my little way 
I'm proud of my stiff knee.) Yester- 
day I was shown a vast asylum con- 
taining the insane victims of the war. 
This peace will hardly change their 
condition. Still I shall put vine leaves 
in my hair when the proclamation rushes 
through the streets. 

Devotedly, 
E. 
236 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

November 13, 1918. 
Hopital 1, Rennes. 
Cherie — 

Well, I suppose you got the news 
quite as soon as we did, and hung out 
your flag and blew your horn and danced 
and drank wine. Germany tumbled 
apart and Mangin marched into Strass- 
bourg. By the way, Mangin was my 
General the 21st of July, 1918. I wish 
I were with his soldiers now, quietly 
advancing into the great page of his- 
tory. I enjoyed being a poilu and I'm 
sure the hereafter of my life will never 
be quite as satisfactory as this finishing 
war episode. 

I recall a poem by De Ileredia in which 
an aging man laments he did not die a 
young soldier in battle. I am that 
aging man. This is extremely selfish 
of me, isn't it? And I realize the enor- 
mous advantages of being "spared" — 
still, the roly-poly years say very little 
to me. 

Perhaps I'm a little pessimistic this 
237 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

morning, and my excuse is the trouble- 
some fact that my wound has reopened 
and I'm obliged to wear a pansement 
again. As you know, the wound is 
directly behind my knee and naturally 
is agitated by every step I take, every 
bend of the knee. The new skin over 
the wound is ever so delicate and two 
days ago it broke. Last night it looked 
very ugly, and this morning the good 
sister came in and bandaged it. This 
afternoon I must see the doctor and 
make arrangements to omit my treat- 
ments (the exercises) for at least a week 
or so. This is very tiresome, especially 
so if I'm forced to leave this tranquil 
Refuge des Pecheurs. The blesses here 
are "dry", that is, healed. During the 
night I suffered considerably from pain 
in my leg. I fancy it will never be as 
capable as its neighbor. I shall go 
with a slight limp. But all this is 
of no importance. Let me tell you of 
the celebration here. 

Naturally we rather expected the 
238 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

armistice would be signed, still we were 
dazed when the news arrived. Pierre 
and I were ordering luncheon in a little 
family cafe when the steeples began to 
sing and an excitement went up the 
street. The door burst open and in 
came a pretty little ouvriere, crying, 
''Cest fini — cest fini; la guerre est 
fini — c'est la paix.'' She made me real- 
ize what had happened — She was Vic- 
tory in a pink sweater and a little black 
hat. The sound of her '"Cest la paix"' 
and the increasing clamor of the bells 
touched me deeply. I had visions of the 
dead armies contented at last and fall- 
ing asleep — and my tears began to 
drop into my plate (we had ordered 
stewed kidneys). 

Out in the street we found the old 
city a garden of flags — red and white 
and blue floated from every window and 
balcony. The sun came out as though 
in June and I saw the moon looking 
down. The crowd and its joyful noise 
augmented at each corner. The place was 
239 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

crammed to hear the Mayor's speech. 
The blesses kissed each other and legless 
heroes danced together. Cheers for the 
" doughboys " when one appeared. Venus 
took them from the arms of Bacchus. 

In the evening we had colored lan- 
terns and fireworks and music. Cest 
la Victoire — and every one smiled and 
offered a drink. 

This letter must stop without being 
finished — I've no more time. 

Devotedly, 

E. 

November 18, 1918. 
Ilopital 1, Rennes. 
Dear Mother — 

Yesterday of course we had to go to 
church to sing the Te Deum and cele- 
brate the Victory. I fancy you did 
the same in M. I hope your weather 
was as fine as ours — a winter day of 
sun and crystal. 

The church was packed ; however, 
arriving in good season, we got seats 
240 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

well toward the front, with every sort 
and condition of man — as a church 
should be. I noticed many American 
soldiers. Before the service began a 
passage was made in the crowd and 
fifty or more splendid old veterans of 
the War of 1870 marched gently toward 
the gorgeous altar, carrying their rich 
and memorable banners. The organ sent 
a spider chasing up my backbone, and 
from a dimness emerged an embroidered 
procession holding sparkling crosses and 
lit candles. 

We stood on tiptoe to see the approach- 
ing Cardinal in a sea of scarlet draperies 
under a satin and fringed roof. He took 
his white throne as any king, and then 
the complicated service began. But I've 
neither wits nor memory enough to 
describe it. There was a great deal of 
solemn walking about and putting on and 
off of little caps and chanting and bowing 
and kissing of hands, the organ every so 
often chasing the spiders up my back. 
After a time the sleepy Cardinal left 
241 



^iV AMERICAN POILU 

his throne and, preceded and followed 
by dressy assistants, he paraded to the 
pulpit and made the most lamentable 
speech ever made in any temple, Chris- 
tian or pagan. The Captain said it 
was shameful, and I said it was criminal. 
On the greatest day of the history of 
the modern world, on the day of victory 
after a four years' war, before a vast 
audience the least of which had borne 
his fagot of suffering, the crippled sol- 
diers, the forlorn mothers, the tragic 
fathers — this poor old Cardinal of 
Rennes had nothing to say of beauty, 
of consolation, of spiritual import. He 
talked exactly as a cabman or a bar- 
tender would talk about the Boche 
and the end of the war. He was a 
shocking Cardinal, 

But the organ was victorious and 
the long flags hanging from the painted 
arches. The vast audience was vic- 
torious, also — silent and in mourning 
for the most part — still, emanating 
the joy and pride victorious. And the 
242 



AN AMERICAN POILU 

Cardinal was victorious — quite so — 
but he should have been celebrating 
in a rusty old stove-pipe hat, on the 
box of a shabby old cab. I hope the 
Cardinal in Notre Dame was more be- 
coming to his place. I fancy he was. 

Victorious — I think it very hard to 
be victorious — victorious with beauty. 
Defeat is easier; one puts on black and 
goes softly and is more or less dignified. 
Victorious — one is tempted to get drunk, 
to be vulgar and cruel. Listen to what 
Walt Whitman wrote after the victory 
of our Civil War, and behold the 
ideal. 

"Reconciliation, Word over all, beauti- 
ful as the sky. 

Beautiful that war and all its deeds of 
carnage must in time be utterly 
lost, 

That the hands of the sisters Death 
and Night incessantly softly wash 
again, and ever again, this soiled 
world ; 

For my enemy is dead, a man as divine 
as myself is dead, 
243 



AN AMERICAN POILU 



I look where he lies white-faced and still 

in the coffin — I draw near, 
Bend down and touch lightly with my 
lips the white face in the coffin." 

Devotedly, 
E, 



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